The Harbinger's Burden
by Fluff Nugget
Summary: Vilkas was crushed when he discovered the harsh truth that accompanied his Lycanthropy. Now, he desperately struggles with the beast blood boiling in his veins and the promise of Sovrngarde hovering in the mists of the future.- Vilkas x Dragonborn.
1. Foreword

**Foreword**

* * *

><p>Hello everyone. I wanted to thank you for taking the time to peruse the stories here on fanfiction and to deem my story worthy of a glance. I hope you enjoy this little installment. But first, there are a few things to note:<p>

First: This will be short (relatively speaking, for those of you who know my work ;)) compared to other stories I'm writing. This is mainly due to the fact that the installment comes from a short series of quests in the Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim game.

Second: This fanfiction will contain mature themes and situations including but not limited to sexual situations, innuendos, violence, and salty language. I promise that there is a story involved and any scenes with particularly graphic sex will be marked with three asterisks (***) in the chapter heading. If such content offends you in any way, please skip said chapter.

Third: This fanfiction does contain spoilers and lots of them. If you have not had the opportunity to play Skyrim and journey on the Companions' quest-line, I highly recommend it. Please keep the spoilers bit in mind when reading.

I think that's all. Enjoy, everyone! Thanks for reading!

~ Fluff


	2. New Blood

Chapter One

_New Blood_

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN: I hope you enjoy this slight distraction from The Albian Hero and the Auroran Legend. I have trouble focusing on Fable when Skyrim just came out, haha. This'll be short, relatively speaking, and will serve to ease me out of my writer's block. Thanks for reading!**_

* * *

><p>Kodlak had gathered the four of them into the subforge, offering Vilkas welcome shelter from the storm raging outdoors. Despite his beast blood, he rather despised being uncomfortably wet. The hair on his arms raised with the electricity in the air as well as the charged atmosphere around him. Kodlak was hunched heavily over the central basin, his thickly-muscled arms taught and the sinews clear under his pale, Nordic skin. The thick, gray braids tumbled over his shoulders and the circlet adorning his brow seemed duller, somehow. The matter to be spoken of was grave, indeed. Vilkas knew they could all smell it. Even Aela shifted uncomfortably with the tension in the air. But she did not dare speak out. Not before Kodlak. Even one so high-strung as she knew better than to bare her teeth or flick her tail insubordinately before her alpha.<p>

"As all of you know, the Companions have long drawn their power from the blood of the beast, cursed by Hircine with Lycanthropy," Kodlak began.

Vilkas felt more than saw Aela and Skjorn shift uncomfortably. It was no secret that they viewed the beast blood as a blessing, a gift rather than the 'curse' Kodlak claimed it to be. He ground his foot into the pebbles on the floor, communicating that the others should keep silent and listen to the Harbinger.

"I wish to seek a cure. Terrfyg was short-sighted in his choosing the change for us," Kodlak murmured, peering up at each and every one of them. "When making the pact with Hircine's disciples, he neglected to consider the implications upon our spirits, upon where we will travel after death."

"What do you mean?" Vilkas inquired, concern flooding him. He'd always accepted that Lycanthropy was simply a part of who he was, that it changed nothing regarding his journey to Sovngarde. He was a Nord, bred and born. His disease in no part changed that, or so he'd believed. This news was troubling. He needed to hear more.

"We are bound to serve Lord Hircine," Kodlak expounded. "Rather than venturing to Sovngarde, we will enter the Hunting Grounds to forever hunt with our Master."

Vilkas felt as though he were the only one who recoiled as though burned. He glanced hesitantly to Farkas, his brother and twin, to gain a second opinion. The poor man seemed to be quite at a loss for what to think or say. But Vilkas did catch the eyes of Aela and Skjorn on him, assessing, appraising with the same scrutiny he viewed them with.

"Surely it is not so terrible?" Aela prompted.

"It seems like a paradise," Skjorn added.

Vilkas remained silent. He felt betrayed, deceived. It was not Kodlak's fault, he knew. But the blow had been dealt nonetheless. He'd been brought up to believe he was no less a Nord, no less a son of Skyrim because of his beast blood. He had never really believed it to be a blessing, as Aela and Skjorn did, but neither had he believed it to be such vehement debauchery.

"Regardless, I am engaging in research to try and find a cure," Kodlak concluded. "During that time, I shall relinquish my transformations. I do not wish to dance with Lord Hircine any longer."

"I will join you," Vilkas announced suddenly, causing the others to peer toward him.

"I will too," Farkas bleated belatedly, after his twin.

Aela and Skjorn squared their shoulders, each appearing threatened by the turn of the majority.

"We embrace our gift," Aela spoke for the two of them. She was more elegant with words than Skjorn could ever hope to be. "It is a blessing, a gift from the Companions before us! I am a huntress and I shall remain as one."

"Very well, Aela," Kodlak nodded solemnly. His face did not pass judgment, did not condemn her the way Vilkas did.

Somewhere, deep in the confines of whatever logical part of his mind existed, he knew that his anger toward Aela and Skjorn was unjust and unwarranted, a manifestation of his anger and sense of hurt toward the news Kodlak had imparted upon them. But he glowered nonetheless, his muscles taught.

"Have something to say, Vilkas?" Aela challenged, catching his black gaze.

"I need to stew. Alone," he managed in a grunt before retreating from the subforge and out into Skyrim via the side passage.

* * *

><p>He had had no way to know, then, how entirely miserable he would be over the course of the next month while the search for a cure was under way. The blood called him, railed in his veins, pressing for the pleasure that came with the change, the ecstasy that was accompanied with the bones and sinews stretching, breaking, and reforming. It begged him to cave, to feel the wind in ways that could not be understood as a human, smell the scents of the wild tundra, stalk and hunt deer, elk, even giants and lap at the blood gushing from their throats.<p>

The entire time, he struggled. He had come close to changing countless times, though the incidents appeared to be relatively contained to outsiders. There would be the occasional slip – the lengthening and sharpening of teeth, the pointing of ears, the yellowing of his eyes. To the others in the town, all it took was a quick, suspicious glance and he was able to rein the beast in. But it was a struggle and it was torture.

Now, here he sat before Kodlak, completely at a loss. He'd struggled and pined with the burden of resisting the change. But the price, eternity and the afterlife of Sovrngard, was too precious to squander on petty mortal concerns of the flesh. Still, he needed help, guidance from his Harbinger.

"But I still hear the call of the blood," he murmured to Kodlak, ashamed at his revelation. It seemed as though he were the only one struggling at resisting the change. Fargar did not seem to miss it and Kodlak had already confided to Vilkas that it provided him with a clearer head.

"We all do, it is our burden to bear," Kodlak replied kindly, his gaze kind and somewhat saddened. But there was no judgment, no disappointment in Vilkas' struggle.

"You have my brother and I," Vilkas said, hurrying to ease the sorrow behind Kodlak's kind blue eyes. "But I don't know if the rest will go along quite so easily."

A breeze passed with the opening of the door down the hall from them and it carried the scent of a newcomer. The beast in him worked its assessment without him consciously being aware – a primal survival instinct. It was a female, mature and of breeding age. Even from so far, he could scent the soot that clung to her clothing and the sweet smell of smoke that danced in her hair. A blacksmith, if he had to guess.

Vilkas glanced to Kodlak. He knew the Harbinger could smell it, too. They both fell silent, Vilkas deeply regretting having not finished the conversation he'd meant to begin. But they could not air their problems before a stranger in the halls of Jorrvaskr. It was far too personal, far too dark.

Out of the shadows, the woman stepped forward. Vilkas gazed at her sternly, not at all pleased that her presence had interrupted something so important. But he could not deny that he did appreciate what he saw. The woman was a Nord, tall and possessing the rugged beauty that accompanied all of Skyrim's inhabitants. Her features were pleasing, her face reminding him very much of a snow-fox with the softly-angled jaw, brows, and nose. Her skin was white as fresh cream and dotted with flecks of freckled fire. He could see little of her body beneath the heavy steel armor, but the alloy hinted at supple curves. And her hair! A study of contrasts, indeed. Skin of ice, hair of fire, and eyes of storm. She was a fascinating creature, indeed.

Kodlak seemed to smell Vilkas's sudden arousal and subtly kicked him beneath the table. Vilkas grunted, acknowledging the scolding and sat back with his arms folded over his chest.

"I wish to join the Companions," the stranger said in a soft-spoken, but firm tone. Her gray gaze passed between Vilkas, questioning whether or not she should be speaking to one or both of them.

Vilkas glanced to Kodlak, indicating that it was to him that she ought to focus her attention. She gave him the slightest of nods, the red braid that kept her forelocks bound tumbling free of its binding behind her ear and brushed against the edge of her brow line.

"Would you now? And who are you?" Kodlak inquired, a light peeking through the sadness in his gaze.

"Yseult of Winterhold," she answered in the customary manner of the Nords.

Vilkas felt a smile tug at his lips. Born in Winterhold and named for the ice? Her parents must have known no spark of creativity.

"Mm," Kodlak nodded and gestured for her to step closer. "Let me have a look at you."

Yseult stepped closer and Vilkas eyed the pair of waraxes at her hips. A smith and a warrior? Seemed a potent combination.

"Oh yes, a fine spirit."

Vilkas turned to peer at Kodlak. "Master, you are not truly considering accepting her, are you?" She certainly seemed capable of handling herself against a wolf or a very young bear, but she certainly did not look of Companion caliber. Even if she were, this was not the time to be accepting new recruits.

"I am nobody's master," Kodlak scolded delicately. "And last I checked, there were empty beds in Jorrvaskr for those with fire in their hearts."

Vilkas was not prepared to back down. "Apologies. But perhaps this isn't the best time? I've never even heard of this outsider."

He saw Yseult's eyes narrow at his words, but she held her tongue and glanced back to Kodlak, the swing of her hair giving him another wafting of the smoke that told of her profession.

Kodlak regarded Vilkas levelly, silently promising that they would speak later. "Sometimes the famous come to us. Sometimes men and women come to us to seek their fame. It makes no difference. What matters is their heart."

"And their arm," Vilkas prompted, not at all eager to add the stress of weaning a whelp to the burden of resisting the change.

"Of course. How are you in battle, girl?"

Her stormy eyes flashed eagerly and a smile curled her pink lips. "I have much to learn," she stated humbly, though he could hear how her heart thrummed with pride.

"That's the spirit. Bilkas here will get started on that." Kodlak stated and turned to peer at him across the table, "Vilkas, take her out to the yard and see what she can do."

"Aye," he grunted, standing from his chair and marching purposefully down the hall.

Yseult followed him without a word and he was grateful for it. She was not like others who came to them, doe-eyed and full of questions. She seemed capable and level-headed enough, but he doubted her arm. The armor she wore added to her bulk, but the thin elegance of her neck told of her woman's body. There were no more places for lithe, silent hunters as Aela and Ria were. And Nia's muscles rivaled Vilkas's own, she was so sturdy from her mastery of the blocking art.

"The old man said to have a look at you," Vilkas stated, eyeing her skeptically. "So let's do this. Just have a few swings at me so I can see your form."

Yseult regarded him dubiously. "I promise you, Companion, I know how to use an axe."

He chuckled. "Don't worry, I can take it," he promised.

Yseult drew her axes from her hip and placed a firm grip on their handles, "You ready, kinsman?"

Vilkas drew his shield. "Ready."

A roar tore from her throat with such ferocity he nearly thought it the cry of a dragon and she brought her axe down on him heavily. The first blow he blocked with his shield, the second he parried with his sword and neatly sidestepped from her. To her credit, she kept a steady rhythm of her attacks and the strength behind them was impressive and fluid. She had certainly earned her muscle, working in the forge, he assumed. The strength therein was well-married to the repeated strikes and blows from her twin axes.

Another blow landed on his shield and this time he pushed against it, knocking her off balance and withdrawing his sword and shield to communicate to her that the test was over. She did not attack him any further and returned the axes to the leather loops at her hips.

"Not bad," he said, slightly out of breath. It had been more than a little effort to parry the blows. She had a good arm indeed. "Next time won't be so easy. You might just make it."

"So I am a member of the Companions now?" she inquired, her voice still soft and humble-sounding. But he heard the strength in it, subtle as the wood of an oak.

He nodded, but was unwilling to release his anger at the interruption earlier. "Yes. But for now, you're still a whelp to us, new blood. You do what we tell you. Here's my sword," he unsheathed the blade and handed it to her. "Go take it up to Eorland and have it sharpened after the beating it just took."

Yseult frowned distastefully. "So I am to be your servant girl?" she murmured, but took the sword nonetheless. "I do hope there is real work for me to do. I am eager to be of use."

"You are of use doing that," Vilkas rumbled. "Ask the others for more work. Farkas deals with the newbloods. If you prove your mettle, perhaps Aela or I will give you further tasks."

"Am I permitted to make requests of you?" she inquired, an amber brow raising against the snow of her skin.

"That depends," he replied hesitantly.

"Smile for me. Vilkas, was it?"

He scoffed. "Why should I? The high-king was slain, the dragons have returned, I have a newblood pestering me and ignoring my orders." Among other things…other , more important things.

"I am not ignoring them," Yseult rebutted calmly, a comely grin parting her lips and showing straight, white teeth. "I simply do not see why you can't grace me with a smile. A man as handsome as yourself shouldn't skulk around so darkly. The sun is shining over Whiterun and the breeze is full of the smells of the grasses and mountains. Surely you can muster a slight curve in that strong mouth?"

Vilkas was taken aback. He had pegged this newcomer as shy and silent, innocent, naïve. The impression had come for the quiet timbre of her voice, but now he saw that it was simply a clever trick, a ruse to drop a person's guard. She was a clever trickster, this one. And…he found himself rather fascinated by it.

He smirked. "Mind your tongue, new blood. It may get you into trouble."

She licked her lips. "Sounds like a challenge I would very much like to undertake," she stated, the soft tone sounding almost like a purr.

* * *

><p>Skjorn and Aela mocked him in the month after his meeting with the newcomer, laughing at the purple welts that developed on his arm from the blows he sustained with his shield.<p>

"You've lost your fire, Vilkas," Aela mocked, her teeth sharp with the promise of that night's change. She was mocking him, she knew. But he would not turn. He would resist the change, resist the call of Lord Hircine. The price was Sovrngarde if he collapsed. He would lose his status as a true Nord.

"The old man asked me to test her mettle."

"I think you're soft on the little dame," Skjorn laughed deeply. "I'll admit, she is a beauty. Pitty her looks are wasted being a blacksmith. I've seen her up there with Eorland, hammering out steal and orichalculm and iron."

"The craftsmanship is excellent," Aela said, extending her bow from where Yseult had bent and coaxed the wood into a more potent shape. "I'd wager she could replace Eorland, if she were to marry into the Gray-Mane family, of course."

"I'd be soft on her," Farkas admitted, unashamed of the revelation. "I wouldn't want to hurt her. She's awful pretty."

Vilkas did not like the mocking from Aela or Skjorn. Farkas was speaking honestly and Vilkas certainly agree with his twin. The woman was lovely and he was more attracted to her than was healthy, perhaps. He attributed it to his denying his beast blood. The feral part of him longed for release, for primitive instincts to drive him once more. If he could not become a wolf, perhaps he could lose himself in the pleasures of the flesh. This Yseult certainly appeared as though she could withstand and possibly enjoy a half-crazed werewolf thrusting against her.

"Then I'd say it's a good thing you're in charge of her jobs, brother," Vilkas said, clapping Farkas on the shoulder. "You won't send her off on any suicide runs."

Aela smiled. "If she keeps proving her mettle, she may even be able to join the Circle. Become one of us."

"You're not serious?" Vilkas demanded with an angry snarl. "After what we've learned about Hircine and the Hunting Grounds? I'll not see you tear her paradise from her as mine has been ripped from me."

"Calm your temper, VIlkas!" Skjorn shouted, lumbering forward. "Yseult is powerful. She would take the blood well. Besides, the Silver Hand is growing in numbers. With the loss of you and Farkas, don't you think we should bolster our numbers?"

"It is not worth the price! It is not worth being a Daedra's slave for eternity!" Vilkas bellowed, his heart aflame with anger. How could they, after Kodlak, Farkas, and he had revealed what a devastating blow the news was, consider inflicting the curse upon another of the Companions? He would not have it. He would see her given a choice. Aela understood the Hunting Grounds and preferred it to Sovrngarde. But Yseult…she was a blacksmith, a warrior. She was not a hunter. Surely the blood would not hold the same call for her as it did for Skjorn and Aela.

"Hush, all of you," Farkas barked. "I'm taking her to retrieve the Wuuthal from the Silver Hand. If we are successful as shield-siblings, Kodlak has agreed to engage in the ceremony and welcome her."

Vilkas, Aela, and Skjorn all glowered at one another, the tension palpable in the air of the mead-hall basement. Farkas seemed to be at a loss, which was not unusual for him. The lad was strong in brawn, but not so much in wits. He was kind-hearted, though, a gentle giant. He was a good shield-sibling for Yseult. He would ensure she fell under no harm.

"Very well," Vilkas growled. "I'll see to the preparations."

Aela and Skjorn moved toward the upper-most part of Jorrvaskr.

"And where are you going?" Farkas inquired of the pair.

"Reconnaissance," Aela stated simply. "We're finding the locations of more covens of the Silver Hand. We plan on dealing a mighty blow, to teach them never to return and haunt our hall again. They will fear the blood of the beast and fear the Companions!"

"But please, continue with your petty ceremonies," Skjorn stated with a snide smirk. "We'll see this new blood's true colors when the appropriate time comes."

* * *

><p>Vilkas could not sleep that night. The beast blood had always prevented him from being well-rested, but this night was different. Initially, it was Skjorn and Aela's words that stung him to alertness. He worried about the fire in their hearts, the lengths they would go to see the Silver Hand eradicated. It seemed as though their longing to purge the society went beyond simple rivalry for lives. Aela reveled in the solitary hunt and these folk provided excellent prey. They were tough and crafty. What she could not accomplish with sneaking and archery, Skjorn could handle with the brunt, brutish force of the beast.<p>

A scent struck him from down the hall, in the new-recruits quarters and he groaned at the rush of blood to his nethers. He knew that Yseult had returned from the forge with Eorland and collapsed onto her pallet to rest before her rendezvous with Farkarr. The other Companions who were not of the Circle were out scouting for Aela and Skjorn and Kodlak as in Winterhold petitioning the College to delve into research on Lycanthropy and Farkas had sought council with Eorland pertaining to the sharpness of his blade. It was only the two of them in Jorrvaskr. Well, them and the servants.

His arousal made the feral part of him alive and eager. His hearing became hyper-sensitive and his nose scented the air, catching the sweet smells of woman that wafted through the draft in the door. He could smell the heat of Yseult's ache, hear the soft panting noises and moans she made into the rough hides and straw that composed her bed, and almost taste the wetness that came from her core. He needed release and she was ripe to receive him. All that was needed was for him to venture down the hall, to the Companion's quarters, and rut into her and revel in their shared desires.

He groaned again, curling in on himself and thrusting a hand into his trousers. No…he needed to be somewhat civil about this. She was a Nord woman and as such would not be shy about her desires. If she wanted a man's company, there was nothing to stop her from venturing down the hall and seeking him out. He would not interfere. He would be a silent listener and share her pleasure with her silently.

Vilkas had never been one for creativity, but he was amazed at the clarity of images that rushed through his mind as he dropped his guard and allowed the primal part to have a bit of control. Yseult's soft moans were like shouts to his sensitive hearing and they thrust him forward in his actions even more strongly. He lost himself in images of her, a meeting of ice and fire, arching against him and clinging to him as he thrust into her. She would drag her nails down his back in ecstasy, arch her soft breasts into his chest as he gripped her hips with his hands and claimed her brutally, beautifully. She would moan his name, beg him to be rougher with her, to claim her more surely. And he would happily oblige.

Yseult let out a strangled gasp followed by a short, swift squeal and Vilkas lost all semblance of control. He groaned gutturally and the fantasies stuttered to a collapsing halt. Hurriedly, he rolled on to his back and curled to try and contain the mess of his orgasm. He bit his lip to stifle the groans as it rocked through him and could not bring himself to care about the disaster he was making of his tunic. He would burn it later and borrow one of Farkas's. There was no shortage of common-clothes around Jorrvaskr.

After a few moments of blinking away the bliss that came with carnal release, Vilkas sat up and removed his soiled shirt, wadding it into a ball and stowing it beneath the center table in his quarters. He would destroy it later. For now, he needed to feel the cold breath of Skyrim on his skin.

He traveled outside the main hall and seated himself a bench outside the main building, lounging back and smirking as he felt the wind stir the hair on his chest, feeling much like the caress of a woman after a good bedding. The release had done well to calm the beast blood, at least for a time. He would have to remember the small-lived tactic later.

"Couldn't sleep either?"

Vilkas jumped and whirled toward the voice, fists raised and stance aggressive. It was pure and utter instinct and he was ashamed at his reaction…and at the sight of who his nightly visitor was.

"Easy, Companion," Yseult said, raising her hands and appearing as though she were attempting to comfort a frightened animal. It was not far from the truth. "It's only me."

"Apologies," Vilkas grunted and seated himself once more on the bench. He could not look at her properly after the events of moments ago. He could see her in the loose-fitting tunic and trousers, so sparse and so revealing compared to the steel-armor she always wore. He could not smell the smoke in her hair without being reminded of his imaginings. It was shameful, barbaric, the beast blood boiling for release within him.

"I was restless myself," she murmured, seating herself beside him.

"I can only imagine," he mumbled.

"Pardon?" she inquired.

"It was nothing," he stated. "Just musing to myself over the position of the stars."

She slid closer to him. He could feel the warmth radiating from her, felt drawn to it and ashamed of it. But he remained taught and controlled and worked to contain his urges. He'd let them slip enough for tonight.

"You know the lore of the sky?" she inquired, fascinated.

"Indeed," he said and raised an arm, tracing a trail of stars. "That is the Warrior. I was born beneath his gaze and joined the Companions with his blessing."

She nodded. "I was born beneath the Thief. Where is he?"

Vilkas gestured and her eyes, like liquid pools of lightning, traced along the line of his arm and finger and found the stars that drew the hooded constellation

"Why are you a smith if you were born beneath the sign of the Thief?" Vilkas felt compelled to ask. Anything to quell the silence, anything to let her assume he was blissfully unaware of her actions, anything to let her assume he could not smell her actions on her.

She shrugged. "I was born along a path and decided my talents were better suited elsewhere."

Vilkas smirked. "You were a theif?"

She nodded. "I was brought forth for execution with Ulfric Stormcloak's lot."

"And you survived?"

She glanced at him with a sardonic grin. "A dragon attacked. I got lucky."

"That much is quite certain," Vilkas agreed and turned back to looking at the stars.

"My turn," she prompted.

He turned to her and saw that her face had gone from merry to genuinely curious. "Yes?"

"Why did you join the Companions?" She inquired.

He chuckled, stretching his arms over his head and thinking on his life in Jorrvaskr. "To hear Farkas tell it, our father raised us here as happy pups. I love my brother, but his brains are not the sharpest." He shrugged. "We were brought here by Jergen. Whether he's our father or no, I don't care. He left to fight in the Great War and never came back. So he's not my problem anymore." It was the truth. A Nord without a father or a mother was not such a terrible thing. It was rather common, what with the continual bandit raids. He and Farkas had not been so terribly young, each of them thirteen. Just under fifteen years had passed since then, and they'd each done well enough for themselves. "We've been here as long as either of us can remember, though." He glanced at her and winked. "So try and show some respect."

"I show plenty of respect to handsome men," she returned saucily and stood. "Thank you for speaking with me. I suppose I'll return and try and sleep. Farkas and I have an accord to see to tomorrow."

"So I've heard," Vilkas stated with a nod. "Do be careful, Yseult. The Silver Hand are a crafty bunch."

She grinned at him. "Not as crafty as me."


	3. The Circle

Chapter Two

_The Circle_

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN: Thank you to all of you who have favorite this story and reviewed it already! You inspire me to write more! Thanks for all of the feedback and the continued interest in this little tale. I hope it doesn't disappoint.**_

_**Note: I'm re-ordering the quests for the sake of plot-points. I know it's wrong, but bear with me.**_

* * *

><p>It was the better part of three days that Yseult and Farkas were gone. The forts and series of caverns they were to infiltrate to retrieve the Wuuthal were almost half a day's journey by foot and there was no doubt time needed to strategize in the meanwhile. Still, Vilkas found himself worrying over the two of them, more Yseult than Farkas, Vilkas knew that his twin was brawny and strong, as capable of defending himself as a giant. It was Yseult he worried for. Her small, SkyForge-Steel waraxes seemed pathetic and small when compared to Farkas's enormous, two-handed greatsword. How would she block an attack with those small blades? She would not dodge well in heavy, steel armor. It was two Companions against Mara-only-knew how many members of the Silver Hand. He could only hope that Yseult's likeness to a fox went beyond appearances alone – she would need all the cunning she could muster to maneuver through such a heavily-armed fort.<p>

Vilkas's stomach sank into his stomach when he saw Farkas approach alone, returning from the journey. He looked more than a little harrowed, his armor battered and dented from having sustained blows and dried, crusted blood still clinging to his long hair and the leather strips of his armor. Yseult was not in his company, and the fact somewhat disturbed him.

"Welcome home, brother," Vilkas greeted his brother, gripping the other man's wrist firmly in reception. "You look as though you could use a hot bath."

Farkas laughed. "Indeed. And perhaps afterward I can talk to you and Kodlak," he glanced around sheepishly. "I'd prefer Aela and Skjorn not to be present."

Vilkas tensed. Farkas's tone did not suggest that something amiss had occurred, but his request of the Harbinger and Vilkas both suggested that the poor man had made a dire mistake during the excavation of the Wuuthal. Without meaning to, Vilkas's nostrils flared, the beast searching for what may have gone awry. From a visual assent, Farkas was unharmed and the blood on him smelled strange, belonging to neither him nor Yseult. The scent was strong, but not strong enough to overpower the subtle musk that came from his skin.

"You changed," Vilkas concluded, his tone hushed.

Farkas nodded, his head hung in shame. "I am sorry, brother."

Vilkas took his brother by the elbow and guided him into Jorrvaskr, down into the lower segment of the halls and called on one of the servants – he didn't see nor particularly care who – to draw hot water for a bath. Then, while Farkas worked at removing the soiled, heavy wolf armor, Vilkas slid toward Kodlak's chambers.

"Farkas has returned," he said, striding into the Harbringer's domain.

Kodlak hurriedly closed a leather-bound book of parchment he'd been scribbling in and shoved it hastily to the side. Vilkas did not particularly care what manner of things Kodlak was writing, though he did note that the action itself was strange – the man had never been much of a scholar. Perhaps the mages at Winterhold were having a bit of an influence on the old warrior.

"You sound alarmed, pup," Kodlak said, his gray eyes peering up where Vilkas stood. "What has happened?"

"We have been revealed to the new blood," Vilkas stated vaguely. "Farkas seeks our council."

Kodlak stood calmly. "Let us hear the tale of his journey."

Vilkas lead the older man to Farkas's chambers, though it was more a formality than anything else. Kodlak knew his way around the halls, after all. Vilkas entered and stood adjacent to the basin of water Farkas sat soaking in. It never ceased to amaze him how quickly the women in the mead hall were able to make real the requests of the Companions. Vilkas swore they knew a bit of magic of their own and it was infinitely more practical than anything a mage might conjure.

"Welcome home, Farkas," Kodlak began, seating himself leisurely upon Farkas's bed. "Vilkas tells me you have an exciting tale to regale us with.

Farks seemed dubious. "I'm not so sure if it's exciting. Worrisome, perhaps."

"Come now, we are eager to hear it," Kodlak prodded.

Farkas sighed, settling back into the water with a slight slosh of the liquid rippling around his thickly muscled form. "We made it to the fort without incident…"

_ Farkas followed behind Yseult as she descended further into the series of caves and chambers. His heavy frame made him slow to follow the slimmer, more agile Nord. She had already slipped into a large, round-ish opening with runic carvings in the floor and sparse furniture in small alcoves along the sides. He arrived in time to hear the clanging of a gate being drawn shut and lumbered forward to see her peering out at him from behind iron bars, looking quite shamed with herself._

_ "Now look what you've gotten yourself into," he laughed._

_ "There's another lever on the left alcove. I saw it through the bars," she pleaded with him, not at all content with her predicament. "See if that releases the catch."_

_ He chuckled again. "Don't worry, I'll get you out."_

_ From the north and south portions of the cavern came a group of men and woman, perhaps ten in number, brandishing weapons of molded silver and delicate hide and studded armor that appeared as though it were made from the pelts of wolves. "We've got you now, monster," came a shout from one._

_ "Which one is this?" Another voice inquired, the strangers forming a ring around Farkas and slowly advancing. _

_ The big man backed away from them, retreating closer to where Yseult stood behind bars, drawing her axes and prepared to hack at them through the cage._

_ "It doesn't matter! If he's wearing that armor, he dies!" A woman shouted, grinning wickedly and poising her sword, prepared to strike at Farkas's vitals._

_ "I'll not die so easily," Farkas replied with a snarl._

_ I vicious roar tore from his throat and he fell to one knee on the ground. Yseult jumped and backed away, helpless in her confines and unable to do little more than watch as Farkas's skin grayed, the soft hair on his arms warped into course, black fur, his ears pointed, and his muzzle lengthened. She heard the wet snaps and creaks of bones breaking and muscles reshaping and watched in both fascination and horror as Farkas, the kind man who'd watched out for her during her first few months in the Companions, morphed into what she could only describe as a werewolf._

_ The wolf she could only assume was Farkas bellowed his rage and swung a heavy, clawed arm at the assailants. The first blow was true, striking across the taunting woman's neck and ripping out the vital artery there. One wailed and charged at him, and he lifted him by the neck and squeezed tightly, snapping the man's vital bones as surely as he would a piece of chalk. One by one, the assailants fell, each brutally slaughtered: a man was gored, a woman's throat torn out with large, vicious teeth, another's chest collapsed under Farkas's immense weight, and still others were bashed and battered against the stone walls until they ceased to appear human._

_ When the carnage had ceased, the wolf let out a high-pitched whine before retreating to the left alcove and out of her sight. Yseult heard another roar followed by the now-familiar popping and creaking of bones, muscle, and limbs. The chains rattled as the door encasing her in the alcove was lifted. She bolted the moment there was enough clearance and rushed into the left recess to see Farkas, naked with his hands folded over his groin to preserve his decency, standing beside the lever looking quite bashful._

_ "I hope I did scare you," he mumbled._

_ Yseult blurted the only thing she found appropriate to reply with. "You're a werewolf?"_

_ He laughed awkwardly and half-turned to her, bending to retrieve his torn trousers and doing his utmost not to expose her to his nudity. "Aye, that I am, lass."_

_ She stared at him a long time while he retrieved the pieces of his armor that had been lost with the transformation and returned them to their place but remained silent. There was nothing to say. Farkas had revealed himself to her and in doing so had informed her that the inner Circle was more than they appeared to be._

"I just hope she isn't scared off, now," Farkas said. He truly was like a child, Vilkas thought, concerned over offending a new-found playmate.

"But she retrieved the Wuuthal?" Vilkas pressed, eager to hear of the fate of Ysgramor's legendary battleaxe, the symbol of the Companions and their order.

"Oh yes!" Farkas informed him, beginning to scrub at the blood in his long, dark hair. "She was just stopping by the Breton's shop…the one with Sigurd as his helper. She found quite a few trinkets on a few of the Silver Hand members."

Vilkas felt himself smiling at that. He remembered their conversation on the stars and felt privileged at holding the knowledge that she was born beneath the sign of the Thief. Of course she would retrieve any valuable gems from the corpses. Members of the Companions did similar things, certainly. The action was not frowned upon and it was even expected from folk. But he enjoyed the thought of her doing such a thing silently, creeping up behind someone and lightly slipping a few coins from their pockets or drawing close to whisper a secret in someone's ear and easily unclasping a valued necklace. She was a practiced trickster and he rather enjoyed the vain thought that she would attempt to practice her skills with him.

Of course, with the news of Farkas revealing himself to her, perhaps she would not return to the Companions now that she knew the truth about the inner Circle, the truth of their Lycanthropy. How much did she know? Was she aware of the curse upon them, how they were prevented from entering Sovrngarde, tricked into following the will of the Daedric Lord of the Hunt? He sincerely doubted it. There was little enough research done on Lycanthropy past methods on how to kill the beasts: silver, fire, and all that. There were plenty of books written on vampires, however. There seemed to be a surge of obsession with them after the Oblivion Crisis- the Champion of Cyrodil had been a vampire himself.

"I'm sorry I broke the oath," Farkas murmured.

"It's quite alright, lad," Kodlak said, standing and offering Farkas a sheet with which to dry himself. "You were put into an impossible predicament. The werewolf is nothing, if not powerful. The Nine know your intentions were pure."

Farkas seemed eased by that. Vilkas could not help but grimace. The Nine Divines may understand Farkas's reasons for shifting but that did not change his predicament, did not sway the truth that Sovrngarde's gates remained shut and the wolf that had taken Terrfyg would take them to the Hunting Grounds, as well.

"Come, let us prepare for Yseult's ceremony of welcome into the circle," Kodlak said, patting Farkas on the shoulder and casting an appraising glance at Vilkas. "What's done is done. We cannot change what happened. Yseult will pass her own judgment. She will return to us, or she will not. We are simple folk. This is all we can do."

* * *

><p>Vilkas had been ordered to watch the stairs leading to the mead hall to ensure that Yseult did not try and creep around and spoil the surprise. He did not know why Farkas or Skjorn bothered with such foolishness. If Yseult had the mind to bypass his station, then she would simply do so. The surprise was more for Farkas's behalf than anything else. The man enjoyed making others happy and causing the corners of their mouths to lift in smiles and laughter and grins. He desperately wanted to apologize to Yseult for the unpleasantness of the revelation of the beastblood in him. This was his method of doing so. It was sweet, but so terribly foolish. They were not even certain if she would come.<p>

He was surprised, therefore, when the breeze carried her scent toward him, upwind where he sat on the hill. His nostrils flared appreciatively, but his countenance remained stern. She was to be honored tonight, made a member of the Circle by Kodlak's wishes. The matter was serious. But the gravity did not prevent him from appreciating her as she approached. Even in the simple clothing of a townswoman, she cut an impressive figure. He rather enjoyed being able to witness the slight curve over her breasts in the fabric, the confirmation of a narrow waist and wide hips. The pallor of her skin showed on her shoulders, revealing taught muscle from working in the forge and delicate collarbones, each dusted with freckles. Her long hair was plaited down her back, though a few whips escaped and rose and fell delicately with the wind.

"We've been awaiting your return," he told her solemnly when she stepped into the torchlight.

Her brow quirked and his attention was brought to an angry-looking scab over the left ridge, interrupting the amber hair that grew there. His brows drew together slightly, half in concern with what other wounds she may have suffered and half with a sudden surge of fascination. She somehow seemed more attractive.

"Come, follow me," he grunted, not at all in the mood to sift through his emotions. He'd enough concerning him with the curse.

She did not press further and did as she was told silently. Vilkas guided her to the posterior portion of Jorrvaskr, to the place they'd spoken of the stars. He lead her to her post at the top of the circle, directly across from Kodlak. He nodded to her, communicating that she should stay before he walked do his station beside Farkas. Both he and his brother were wearing common clothes rather than their wolf armor, as was acceptable for ceremonies. Farkas's needed repair anyways and was currently with Eorland. Vilkas would not let his brother be alone in being the sole unarmored one, though it appeared as though Yseult was also in such a state.

"Brothers and sisters of the Circle," Kodlak began. "Today, we welcome a new soul into our mortal fold. This woman has endured, challenged, and shown her valor. Who will speak for her?"

Farkas raised his voice, grinning broadly and hopefully at Yseult. "I stand witness to the courage of the soul before us."

Yseult's gaze shifted from Kodlak to Farkas and he watched the storm of confusion clear from her eyes and a smile come to her lips. Vilkas sighed in relief. Farkas was forgiven. She'd accepted the Circle, broken and cursed as they were.

"Would you raise your shield in her defense?" Kodlak inquired.

"I would stand at her back so that the world might never overtake us!" Farkas replied strongly.

"And would you raise your sword in her honor?"

"It stands ready to meet the blood of her foes."

Vilkas felt rather than saw the blood rush to her face, both out of pride and humility. The others could not see in the dark, could not feel the heat that was in her face and her breast. She was honored at this small ceremony, touched by the earnestness of it. And for that, he was proud.

"And would you raise a mug in her name?" Kodlak demanded.

"I would lead the song of triumph as our mead hall reveled in her stories!" Farkas confirmed.

"Then the judgment of this Circle is complete," the Harbinger concluded. "Her heart beats with fury and courage that have united the Companions since the days of the distant green summers. Let it beat with ours that the mountains may trmble and the beasts may flee with our call!"

Vilkas raised his fist with the other companions and roared, "Yah!"

"Let's get the drinking started, then," Skjorn laughed, now that the more sincere part of the ceremony had passed.

"Aye!" Many of the others clamored at his suggestion and moved toward the warmth of the fire burning in Jorrvaskr. Vilkas stepped followed a ways, returning the torch to its bracket on the wall. He could use a strong tankard of mead, but felt compelled to wait for Farkas.

"Well, girl, you're one of us now. I hope you don't disappoint." It was Kodlak's voice, softly spoken, but clearly audible to those with the blood. Vilkas turned to see him gripping her forearm, a sign of respect.

Farkas draped a thick arm across her shoulders and steered her toward where Vilkas stood by the door. "You're sure you're alright, lass?" he inquired, cheerful, but sheepish.

Yseult laughed and raised herself onto the balls of her feet to place a delicate kiss on his cheek. "Sweet Farkas," she said, "You are the kindest man I know. No matter the skin you wear, you are one of my truest friends."

Vilkas smiled softly to himself and even laughed as Farkas lifted her off the ground and crushed her against his burly chest in a horribly constricting hug. Yseult did well enough, laughing and then coughing as air was no longer available to her and punching his brother lightly to communicate that she'd had enough. Farkas placed her back on the ground and eagerly marched toward Jorvaskrr.

Vilkas opened the door for his brother. "The Companions honor the conquering heroes, this night," he said flately. "Well done, brother." He nodded to Yseult. "Welcome to the Circle, pup."

Farkas barked laughter and walked into the hall to be handed a tall tankard of honeyed mead and plopped down in a chair to begin booming the story of the tale of their victory. Yseult passed him, the smoldering, sweet scent of her hair stroking his face as she passed. Her light eyes found his dark ones and a cunning smile passed over her mouth.

"What?" he demanded gruffly.

She was unperturbed. "You and Farkas are twins, yes?"

"Yes," he answered sternly. "Though Kodlak is fond saying that Farkas has Ysgramore's strength and I've his brains."

"Oh, of that I have no doubt," she giggled flicking the bulging muscle in his arm lightly. "Are you a wolf too, then?"

He nodded hesitantly, "Aye."

The smile grew broader. "Thank you, Vilkas. Will you share a tankard with me this night?"

He could hardly deny her that. She was the Companion of honor, after all. She'd been accepted into the Circle and retrieved and returned the sacred object of her family. Besides, it were not as though he had anything particularly better to do. It had been a great deal of time since he'd spent time in the company of a beautiful woman. But he was hesitant, what with the beastblood still disturbing him. He'd gained better control over it and was able to ignore the more painful aches of the flesh. But the mead made his mind fuzzy, made him more apt to speak, to lose the tight control he held..

"If I must," he grunted.

Yseult laughed, her quiet voice musical next to the raucous laughter of the other Companions. She reached up to him and slipped her fingers along the hair of his jaw line delicately, her touch so soft he thought for a moment that he'd imagined it. He merely blinked at her.

"Come now, oh Dour One," Yseult chuckled. "Have a drink with me."

Vilkas followed hesitantly and seated himself across from her. He was not sure why she had taken a sudden fascination in keeping his company, but he was sure it involved the lore of the beast. He'd even told her in the past to come to him with question regarding the histories of the Companions and Whiterun, as the retelling or oral history was something of a specialty for him. He so terribly regretted that decision now.

But the night passed and Yseult spoke nothing of the beast. She simply sat politely and listened as Farkas told the story of their plight with the Silver Hand, raising a cheer here and there with the crowd but generally remaining quite and sipping her mead. Vilkas drank sparingly, not wanting to cloud himself any more than he already was. He wanted to be alert around her. He did not doubt for a moment that she would attempt to trick him out of vitally important information regarding the beastblood. She was closer to the Circle now, but not close enough that their problems were hers.

But she did not question him about the beast or how the blood came to be part of the Companions. Her conversation remained on safe, but interesting ground. She inquired of the dealings the Companions had throughout history and was fascinated by the fact that they were not at all involved any sort of political undertaking all through the course of history. He returned her questions of the Companions with inquiries into her pervious life as a thief, but was not at all surprised when she responded to his inquiries vaguely, revealing very little of herself in the process.

"Are you so curious about my birth sign?" she inquired with a laugh. "Very well. Aela has asked me to secure a bit of information regarding the Silver Hand. I'll travel to the fort before the next moon cycle. It would be my honor if you would accompany me."

"Ah. You need a bit of muscle with you, eh?" Vilkas replied sardonically.

"You wish to see my past life, here is your opportunity," she coaxed.

He laughed, deciding to take the bait. "Very well, Yseult. I'll accompany you on Aela's foolish mission."

Her eyes flashed, though he was uncertain at what. He was suddenly put on guard again.

"You've no fondness for Aela, then?" She inquired.

He shrugged. Aela was werewolf, just as he and Falkas were. But she was proud of it rather than believing it shameful as Farkas and Vilkas did. "She's rather solitary," he stated truthfully. "She's an excellent marksman and a superb huntress. We fight over personal matters. My loyalty to her goes only so far as shield siblings and little more." He stated. He did not want to suggest Yseult speak with Aela regarding the beast blood. The perspective she would obtain would be warped, at best. "But she is not a bad person," he added, if somewhat belatedly.

The auburn-haired Nord nodded, brushing a few strands of hair from her face.

"Yseult!" Farkas called drunkenly. "Y'know 'ow to sing?"

"If I'm in the mood, yes," she replied.

"Sing us a song, then! It's your turn to use your voice a bit t'night!" Farkas bellowed, half-doubled in drunken laughter.

Yseult cast Vilkas a smoldering glance that caused a searing heat to burn in his loins before standing and moving to the fore of the hall.

"By Sithis," Vilkas growled, bending his neck and rubbing his eyes desperately with the heels of his hands. "What was _that_?"

Yseult stood before the Companions, poised upon a table before the fire. For a brief moment, he believed that she would chose a serious ballad or tell a story of love, betrayal and heartache, or perhaps of war or the Dragonborn. But when the first words escaped her lips, lovely and sure as her voice was, he could not help but collapse in laughter.

_Way hay! Up she rises!_

_ Way hay! Up she rises!_

_ Way hay! Up she rises!_

_ Early in the morning!_

The other men recognized the song and joined in with her in their drunken, caterwauling voices.

_What do you do with a drunken sailor?_

_ What do you do with a drunken sailor?_

_ What do you do with a drunken sailr?_

_ Early in the morning?_

_ Put him in a long-boat till he's sober!_

_ Keep him there and make 'im bale 'er_

_ Early in the morning!_

_ Trice him up in a runnin' bowline!_

_ Tie him to the tasffrail when she's yard-arm unter._

_ Put him in the scuppers with a hose-pip on him_

_ Early in the morning!_

_ Take 'im and shake 'im and try an' wake 'im,_

_ Give 'im a dose of salt and water,_

_ Give 'im a taste of the bosun's rope-end_

_ Early in the morning!_

_ Stick on 'is back a mustard plaster,_

_ Soak 'im in oil till he sprouts a flipper_

_ Shave 'is belly with a rusty razor_

_ Early in the morning!_

_ Way hay! Up she rises!_

_ Way hay! Up she rises!_

_ Way hay! Up she rises!_

_ Early in the morning!_

Yseult stepped down from the table delicately, the other members of Jorrvaskr caught up in seeing whether or not they could out-shout one another in the matter of music. She returned to Vilkas and bent to murmur against his ear, offering him a stunning view of her breasts beneath the common clothes. "Shall we retreat to the lower halls and let the rabble have their fun?"

"_Please_," Vilkas growled, half-laughter and half-lament that she had begun such an atrocious racket.

Yseult lead the retreat, the two of them half-crouched and retreating toward the stairs so that none of the other Companions caught them and dragged them into their flat, outrageous choir. Thankfully, the journey was short and the others were far too concerned with their noise-making to notice that he and the newest member of the Circle retreated down to the lower portions of Jorrvaskr. Vilkas was grateful for the dark, mostly-quiet seclusion and leaned heavily against the cool stone wall, massaging his temples to attempt to ease the ache the damned singing had caused. There were times he did not at all appreciate the heightened hearing.

Rough, work-calloused hands took his and lowered them from his skull. He opened his eyes to slits, peering at Yseult skeptically as she eased his hands down to his sides. She looked up at him through her lashes, her eyes large, liquid and sharp and they assessed him. Vilkas opened his eyes a little wider and scowled down at her. "What are you-"

Yseult did not allow him to finish. With a swift, silent, calculated movement, she pressed herself against him, effectively putting him off balance and causing him to stumble against the wall for support. Her arms went around his neck, one hand toying with the soft hair at the nape, the other tracing delicate runes into his skin softly with her nails. She crashed her lips against his and he could taste the honey from the mead she'd drunk over the course of the evening. The soft flesh moved against him for a bit, the pressure needy, before he felt her tongue lap at his lower lip and seek entrance.

Vilkas went stiff, clenching and unclenching his hands to give them something, _anything_ to do. His mind, normally so sharp and focused, was no better to him than oatmeal sloshing about in his skull. He did not know what to do, just understood the urge not to behave the way he wanted to.

Yseult was not pleased with his reaction. She arched herself more surely against him, earning a sharp grunt of pleasure as her hip pressed against the steadily apparent, aching part of his groin. The hand that had been tracing words on his back came forward and tipped under his jaw, her thumb resting against his chin and tugging his mouth down to provide the entrance that asking nicely did not. He gasped as her taste became more potent, his brow furrowing intensely as his senses were overwhelmed with the smell, feel, and savor of her. The mead carried undernotes of cinnamon, the smoke the slightest tones of cherry, and she was both hard with muscle and soft with the essence of a woman.

He snarled, his hands finding her shoulders and thrusting her away from him and spinning her around, throwing her against the stone wall with, perhaps, a bit more force than he'd intended. When she attempted to step forward, he shoved her back again and bent his leg slightly so that his knee became wedged between her legs and pinned her skirts to the stone. He braced himself against the wall, hands at either side of her head, and glowered down at her, still tight, still controlled, if only _just_. He'd gained control. He was now the one leading this little game and he had the opportunity to walk away, ignore what had just happened. He did not understand what she was trying to accomplish with her actions, only that they were making his heart burn damnably hot. He was breathing heavily and he knew it. He glowered down at her, confused as to why she saw it fit to afflict him with such longing when he'd the beast to contend with

Yseult met his gaze with bright eyes, open and challenging. _Prove yourself a man, Vilkas_. She seemed to say. _Prove yourself a Nord._

_Jump._ The beast snarled. He was all too happy to oblige such a safe, human desire.

He found her mouth and was not at all gentle in his claiming it or exploring it. He bit her lip callously to gain entrance and taste the salty tang of blood where he broke the skin. She gasped, but did not pull away and he delved in, pressing himself more fully against her and growling at the pleasantness of her flesh. He was all too pleased when she began challenging his dominance over her, her tongue finding his and beginning a duel, of sorts. He could not think of the beast blood for the moment. His mind returned to his visions the night he'd scented her, as he could smell her now. She was ready and eager.

It was a shock, then, that when he moved his hands to grip her hips she pulled away and took the opportunity of surprise to deliver a harsh strike across his cheek. The blow stung and he snarled, more out of shock than pain. Confused, furious, and concerned, he removed a hand and touched his cheek where she'd slapped him, feeling the stinging heat, and turned his eyes down to her. Yseult met his questioning stare with a challenge in her eyes and a smirk on her bloody lips.

"The hunt begins, Vilkas," she said, thumbing the blood from her lower lip and licking the red liquid from her thumb sensually. The movement caused both the beast and the man to stir violently and he grunted, stiff in both his muscles and his nethers.

"What-"

Again, she silenced him with a rough kiss, full of teeth and tongue. But this one was shorter, not as long-lived as the first had been, before she harshly pressed her forearm against his chest and forced him away from her. Vilkas grunted in confusion. Everything in her mannerisms, the look in her eyes, the smirk on her mouth, the set of her shoulders, the sway of her hips, and the smell of her arousal communicated to him that nothing he'd done had offended her. Yet she pushed him away.

"Thank you for accompanying me tonight," she sated pleasantly, her voice again soft and humble. "I look forward to traveling with you." With that, she stepped away from him and retreated down the hall toward the communal bed chambers of the Companions.

He'd half a mind to follow her, and show her the consequences of such infuriating behavior around men. The heat of her remained with him as she sauntered away and he watched her haunches appreciatively, hungrily. By the Nine, he wanted her! But he had not left the encounter entirely empty-handed. The bite on her lip had been deep…deep enough to scar, even. She was marked, now, marked as his. He knew that the world of the beast did not equate the same rules as the world of man, but it was a victory he clung to nonetheless. No other man would touch her. They would see the mark, they would know that they faced a challenge if they chose to do anything brash or carnal.

He groaned and walked to his chambers like a herdsman too long in the saddle and proceeded to relieve the ache she'd begun in him.


	4. Whispers

Chapter Three

_Whispers_

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN: Thank you to all of you who have read this fic and who continue to read! I didn't expect it to receive so much attention. Thank you all very much! Thanks to you reviewers who give me words of encouragement and tell me what you like. It lets me know I'm doing well :).**_

_**This chapter will require a bit of a suspension of disbelief. I know Nords aren't exactly the most stealthiest race in the world, but I made it through the Thieves Guild with one, so they can't be impossibly bad (on adept, thank you), right?**_

_**Anyways, enjoy!**_

* * *

><p>Vilkas waited for Yseult near the road of the Battle-Born farm, as she'd instructed him. The moon was new this night and, as such, the beast blood remained rather calm. He did not struggle for control so terribly this day, though he could still hear others' heartbeats with surprising clarity, enough to know who would live and who would die with the passing of winter. He could still smell the honeymead in the air, feel the breeze and understand what it told him about Skyrim, and know the ache to be loose and free. But there was no bloodlust. He did not crave the change so terribly, was not as prone to his more animalistic, carnal instincts. Yseult had picked a perfect time for the journey.<p>

"Speak of the devil," he murmured, shifting his weight back onto two feet as he saw Yseult walking toward him, leading two horses.

"Smile, Vilkas," she ordered him with a grin, pressing the reins of the black Percheron into his hands. "It's a beautiful day."

Oh, and smile he did, but not at the beautiful day. The scab on her brow had healed nicely, as had the one on her lips. It was a pale pink against her white skin, but very much present nonetheless, running perpendicular to the line of her mouth.

"Where did these come from?" he inquired, checking the girth on the horse to ensure the saddle would not slide beneath the beast.

"That's not important," Yseult answered with a laugh, pouncing onto the white Clydesdale and gripping the reins eagerly.

Vilkas narrowed his eyes at her as he mounted. "Stole them, did you?"

She shrugged with a scoff. "Don't worry. The moment you hop off of one, they walk back to the proper owner."

Yseult did not give him the opportunity to question her further. With a sharp kick to the horse's flank and a shrill whistle from her lips, she bolted off to a gallop on her mount. Vilkas grunted and belatedly tapped his heels on the horse and followed after her. He was not at all fond of riding horseback – being a wolf was faster, more efficient, and more deadly. But he was denied the change. He'd sworn it to Kodlak and himself. He grimaced and contended himself with scenting the breeze, letting the sweet fragrance of honey and meadow grass calm him and ignoring the overpowering smell of horse. He scented a small mammoth herd and giants to the south of them slightly, but knew they were far enough not to be a threat. These he could still take pleasure in. These smells and sensations he could still enjoy. They were one of the few things he would miss, should he ever be cured of his lycanthropy.

The ride was long and the horses kept a relatively quick pace. He allowed Yseult to always remain slightly ahead of him and kept a careful distance behind and to the side. He told himself it was because he was simply her hired hand, that he was following the leader to the place of the mission and he hadn't a clue of where to go. But he could not ignore the pungent, smoky scent that wafted from her hair in the breeze that blew past. She'd been working at the forge with the other smith in Whiterun – the one that took orders for the Legion – helping the woman complete the mass of commissions that had come in. He took no opinion on the civil war, but he understood her rationale: whatever her stance, she was performing her craft and earning coin in the process.

By the time they arrived at the fort, it was well past sundown and the stars were clearly visible. Without speaking, Yseult reined in her horse and dismounted limberly and silently. She carefully draped the reins over the horse's withers before giving it a solid pat on the bum and sending it back down the path it had come from at a leisurely trot. Vilkas dismounted, more gingerly as he was not an experienced horseman, and did likewise. Yseult's body language spoke the need for discretion and Vilkas was content enough to oblige. He was unused to this business of sneaking and crouching and preferred to simply charge at his foes with a fierce battlecry. However, she had invited him along to observe the mannerisms of her previous life. He dared not be denied observation rights due to his bulk.

They slipped off the path to the fort, away from the river and Yseult becan to untie the leather strips that kept her armor bound around her.

Vilkas tensed in alarm, recalling their kiss and how nonchalant she'd behaved before the incident. He was prepared for another encounter. She would not work her wily ways a second time round. "What are you doing?" He demanded, ever blunt.

"You try moving silently in all this metal," she hissed in return. "The tighter the clothing, the better." She winked at him saucily, "I won't need all that steel with what I'm about to do, anyways."

Vilkas fell silent as she slipped from the main portion of her armor. Thankfully, mercifully, unfortunately, there were smallclothes beneath. She was not bare before his gaze, but she was so damnably close. He could see where the cold raised bumps on her skin, raised the fine, pathetic hairs of her arms and legs. But he also saw what it did to her nipples, saw how they strained against the thin fabric of her chemise. He was also given a gorgeous study of her anatomy as she bent to remove the steel cuffed bracers at her feet. He felt heat grow in the pit of his stomach and his groin, and was sorely disappointed when the ache was not less because of the lack of beastial influence. He still seethed and ranted about those two nights. She was toying with him now. She had to be. She was tormenting him. No woman in her right might behaved as such in front of a man for any other reason. Yseult was simply lucky – he bore the beastblood, but he was no savage to throw her to the ground and have his way with her for mocking him as such. Deep down, in some sick, twisted part of him, he rather enjoyed her games.

But when she glanced down to him, her eyes spoke of anything but interest in the carnal arts, much unlike what he'd been expecting. The smell was not present as it had been the other nights and he realized with crushing despair and agonizing relief that she was not toying with him and this was no ruse – she truly intended on storming a fort in her undergarments.

Her eyes did hazard a glance down at his groin and a spark of mischief illuminated in them and she grinned. In a whisper she inquired, "Have you knowledge of how to use it? Or are you just showing off?"

He grunted, pretending the stiffness did not exist. "Just do what you came here for, newblood."

Yseult raised a finger and made a soft click of her tongue against her teeth. "I'm a member of the Circle now, oh Dour One. I'm no longer your servant girl or a newblood."

_Shame_. Vilkas sighed to himself. He could think of a menagerie of placed he'd enjoy seeing that mischievous smile. "Do what you came for." He corrected, dropping the bit about her being new to the Companions.

Yseult grinned and crouched once more, creeping forward and gesturing that he should follow. She lead him across the road a bit before she gestured up to a stone bridge crossing between two pillars. "Give me your bow," she ordered.

"Allow me," Vilkas replied.

"What until he's at the apex of the bridge. He must fall into the water," she pressed.

He nodded, drawing back the bowstring back on his inhale. His eyes, keener in the darkness than hers, followed the man until he was nearing the highest point in the arched bridge. He released the arrow, along with his breath. The shaft met its mark a few moments later, striking the man through the neck and causing him to tumble from the bridge and crash to the river below.

Vilkas turned to grin at Yseult victoriously – it had been an impressive shot. To his dismay, however, he found that she'd disappeared down the grassy knoll and toward the lookout posted at the river. He kept his station upwind and observed with growing fascination as she silently approached the man, put his hands on either side of his head and twisted harshly. Vilkas heard the wet snap of the mans bones and sinews breaking beneath her strength and half-shuddered as she kicked the body into the river to join the other man. The Companions normally did not rely on such trickery and approached their foes brashly. Organizations such as the Thieves'' Guild and the Dark Brotherhood were frowned upon because such deceitful tactics were employed.

She did not speak as she climbed the hill and promptly scampered into the main door of the fort. VIlkas simply sat in stunned silence as she passed by window after window, unopposed in her progress. Surely there were men inside? The secrets Aela wanted could not come without some sort of a price to be paid in blood. Two men were hardly fortification enough for a fort.

His curiosity getting the better of him, he followed her into the fort, making his way up the different levels and stepping over bodies as he meandered to the stone bridge. What he witnessed could not be described as anything short of a highly morbid art. Each man had been killed in a different way, each as silent and cunning as the last. This one had been poisoned and his glassy, highly-alert eyes followed Vilkas as his skin blued and he struggled for air. Another's throat had been sliced. One lucky man had gotten away with a solid thump to the back of the skull with a cast-iron pot and remained unconscious, half-draped off the side turret of the fort.

By the time he'd half-crossed the bridge, Yseult was approaching him with a scrap of paper in hand. "What kept you so long?" She inquired.

"Admiring your handiwork," Vilkas replied with a half chuckle, disappointed he hadn't been able to see her actually stealth methods when dealing with the others. "I'm grateful your blade belongs to the Companions."

She grinned and sauntered past him, a tint of pride in her step. He made a note to compliment her more often, particularly when she was in smallclothes – it gave him more to admire.

* * *

><p>She lead Vilkas a ways until she found a campsite which she deemed suitable. There was a musty tarp, which Yseult unrolled to reveal supplies suitable for setting camp. Vilkas nodded with deep respect to the degree of tactics she presented. It became entirely too boring speaking with Farkas of nothing save heave swords and heavy armor, of being brave and bold, of senselessly charging into an armed-to-the-teeth-fortress without bothering to understand the layout or the number of men positioned within. Aela was smarter, more wily and willing to plan than Farkas or Skjorn. Vilkas still bore a grudge from her disrespect of Kodlak and was unwilling to admit that the level of her intelligence was similar to his own.<p>

Yseult set to fetching tinder and pitching the small tent and bedroll while Vilkas set a pot out to boil water and began adding dried, salted chunks of deer flesh and various herbs found around the campsite.

"You can cook," Yseult marveled, taking a seat beside him the ground, once again clad in her armor.

"I can do many things," he stated blandly. Why was it such a surprise to women that men could fend for themselves? It did not take a scholar to boil things in a pot.

"Mhmm. You've a talented tongue," she commented, licking her lips subtly.

"I'll take that to mean that I'm gifted in speechcraft, then," he grumbled, not about to rise to the bait. He tired of her toying with him. But her words from almost a week and a half ago ricocheted in the bone confines of his skull. _The hunt begins._ Was he to chase her, then? The hunt was something all wolves understood well. The chase, the kill, the feasting…but a hunt for a mate? It was something that was indeed beyond his comprehension or know-how as either a wolf or a human.

"You can take it to mean whatever you like," Yseult replied easily.

She sat beside him in easy silence as the soup began to smell less like water and more like a palatable food source. He enjoyed her presence like this, when she offered him silent companionship as she so often did in the halls of Jorrvaskr. The act spoke volumes that words could not. Having her near helped him to feel more connected with the Nord part of him, more human and less animal. At least until she began mocking him, that was.

Vilkas withdrew the pot and poured equal portions into the two wooden bowls Yseult held out. He returned the remaining portion to warm near the fire and accepted a wooden spoon from her.

"You certainly know how to plan," he commented idly, sloshing the liquid around in the bowl and waiting for it to cool. "It is amazing what others tend to forget when they set out to collect a bounty." So hungry for glory, so eager for acknowledgement, many of the Companions returned to Jorrvaskr half-starved, but triumphant. It was nothing seared beef and many tankards of ale could not remedy.

"This is not my first outing," she returned, her actions with the soup much the same as his.

"Clearly," he replied and peered up at her cautiously. "Kodlak tells me that you were an imperial prisoner at Helgen. Tell me: how did such a travesty occur?"

Yseult smiled, stretching the mark he'd left on her lips. But despite the light gesture, he read a sadness in the slump of her shoulders and in the light of her eyes.

"Would you believe that a Jarl's son and I had a bit of a tiff and the old man had me arrested for 'spoiling the innocence of his youth'?" Yseult inquired before blowing off a spoonful of soup and sipping it slowly.

Vilkas offered a smile, though it was a poor attempt, he was sure. "I would not put such a thing past you – but I doubt it to be the true story. Bedding a Jarl's son does not result in an execution, particularly for one as comely as you."

Her smiled widened an incremental amount, but the sadness remained in her posture.

"You can speak to me, little one," Vilkas stated in his best attempt to make his voice soft and comforting. The beastblood had hardened him, made him gruff and terse and frigid. It was a significant amount of effort to display empathy.

She shrugged. "I suppose _someone_ should know. You are aware of the college in Winterhold, yes?"

Vilkas grimaced. "The one for mages?" He was not overly fond of magic, seeing as it was such trickery and deceit which had plunged him into the hell of the beastblood.

She nodded. "The very same." She took another mouthful of soup before continuing, "Without getting into the politics of the story – a company of rogue mages killed my mother and father and retained my sister and I as pets. I don't know how, but they made my sister into vampire. When I escaped, I killed her out of self-defense." She pressed her lips together, her eyes growing dark as she gazed out at the stark landscape of Skyrim's rugged mountains. "I tracked them to Cyrodil and exterminated their little coven."

Vilkas nodded. "Just vengeance," he stated.

She shook her head and laughed, finishing her soup. "I did not stop with them. I hunted down their families, their children. Anyone whom they held dear perished. And I was not kind in my manner of ending them."

Vilkas frowned. Vengeance was something he understood. It was part of the code for the Companions and why he so despised Aela for her continued attacks on the Silver hand – they went beyond retribution for lives of Companions lost and into the realm of cruelty. And here was Yseult, no different than the woman he so despised.

"The task took me six years to complete," she stated grimly. "I gathered quite a bounty on my head in that time. It seemed only natural that the imperials would be eager to capitalize on the high amount of gold."

Vilkas was silent for a long while. "Do you regret it?"

She knew precisely what was meant by his question, "Killing the mages? No. Slaughtering innocents? Yes, I very much do."

He nodded, "You've a wonderful mind, Yseult. You were but a child at the time of the incident." She had to be. She hardly looked past four and twenty. "You have been shamed and renewed. The past is the past and you have learned from it. Bury it and let it rest. It is all you can do."

She finished her bowl of soup and set it to the side. "Thank you, Vilkas," she said with a genuine smile, her voice returning to the simple, humble tone.

He grunted in return and filled another bowl of soup for himself. Again, they fell into a comfortable silence. So much about her made more sense now – the way she was so soft spoken to put people off guard, the armor she wore not for protection, but as a façade, her very appearance enchanted others and made them think she bore not a malicious bone in her body. He'd been correct in his readings of her.

"Is the beastblood a difficult burden?" She inquired innocently.

Vilkas tensed violently. "It is exactly that," he spat, "a _burden_. A curse is more apt." He looked at her sternly. "You exist between two worlds and are not truly part of one or the other. Such a life addles with the mind. Many of us lose ties to the humanity and go feral."

He had hoped she would leave it be. The conversation topic was difficult, even among the inner Circle, even with Farkas and Kodlak. To speak of such thing with one who was a stranger to the beastblood and had only witnessed the change through another was unnerving. Even with all of her crimes, Yseult would be allowed to enter Sovrngarde. He was barred as a slave of Hircine. He would not witness the mists of the great summit as she would. The wolf would drag him away, into the Eternal Hunting Grounds where he would be subjected the whims of the animal within him and hear Aela's joyful laughter resonating in his mind.

"How does it addle with the mind?" She inquired.

He glanced at her harshly. "Do not persist in this chain of questions, Yesult," Vilkas snarled.

He was not sure what he'd been hoping for. Perhaps a retreat and an apology, or the return to the comfortable silence, _something_ other than her calm voice soothing him and making further inquiries as to his affliction. The wound and betrayal he felt at the knowledge and truth of the change were still sore and weeping. He had not been expecting her to creep forward when he'd looked away, had not been expecting her touch to press so gently against his shoulder or her warmth to permeate his suddenly cold, wretched body.

"Vilkas," she whispered his name almost as she would a prayer. She pressed her lips softly against his temple, disturbing the long, weather-roughened hair that fell there. A shudder of pleasure started at the nape of neck, but he tensed and forbade it to continue its journey down his spine.

"I won't hurt you," she murmured, sliding one knee over him and straddling him.

Her heat spread to him, relaxed him despite his wishes. The beast remained silent, content to rest with the new moon. He was alarmed, then, when his desires washed up anew. He'd believed them to be a simple side-effect of the beastblood, this desire for a woman and the pleasure that would come with her, believed it to take place of the pleasure of the change. But the wolf did not exist except as a shadow this night and the urges were stronger than ever. Without fully understanding why, his hands reached up and found the soft, exposed skin of her neck beneath her thick hair. She was patient as he touched her, cautiously move his calloused palms over the impossibly supple cream that was her skin. She was so delicate, despite her armor, her mettle, her weapons, her sharp wits. There would be almost no effort extended on his part to snap this delicate neck as he'd seen her do to the watchman by the river.

The kiss she'd shared with him haunted him and he knew that no matter how delicate she was, he would not be gentle in claiming her. He'd communicated this through his actions and she had not at all seemed opposed to it. But her words, just now, also haunted him. _I won't hurt you_. Physically, he doubted she could in an honest fight of blades and shields. But she was right in the statement that she held his fascination and her fingers were beginning to wrap about his heart. At this point, it would take precious little effort for her to crush him as surely as he could crush her throat this very instant.

After a long while of silence, she pressed her hand into the center of his chest and forced him back onto the sweet-smelling meadow grass that surrounded the campsite. He let out a grunt of surprise, knocked from his internal musings by her movements and the utter need behind them. Her fingers were working at the leather bindings of his wolf armor when he reached out and gripped her by the neck, his touch no longer gentle and curious, but demanding and callous. He felt the surge of her pulse in alarm, heard the quickened pace of her heart, and smelled her excitement.

He looked at her where he held her captive, her slender neck clenched in his large hand. "I can smell the blood in you," he growled in response to an earlier questions she'd posed – how the beast in him was maddening. "I can hear it gushing from your heart," he continued, easing his grip so that normal bloodflow continued. "On normal nights, it is difficult to ignore."

She did not hesitate when he dropped his stance a bit. Yseult tore his hand from her neck and twisted it above his head, holding it there by the wrist. He winced at the small bit of pain and was alarmed as she continued her progress at unbinding his armor.

"What do you mean, 'On normal nights'?" She pressed delicately, her voice still quiet and unassuming.

He groaned when she flicked past a sensitive spot at his side. "Nights when there is a moon," he rumbled from deep in his chest.

"Ah," she replied, tugging on him so that she could remove the chest piece of the wolf armor. "So you are truly human this night?"

She did not wait for a response from him. The cold steel of her armor pressed against his bare chest as she gripped his hair and forced his head back and his mouth open in a grunt of shock. Her lips crashed to his, her taste as sweet and completely intoxicating as it had been before. He was not as hesitant to accept her tongue and reveled in the dance they engaged in. Her hand, unoccupied with restraining his head, moved down and caressed and massaged the muscles in his arms and shoulders before moving down his chest and stomach with her touch. The warmth of her touch banished any of the bite he felt from the cold air around them. He felt her fingers brush against the puckered skin of scars he'd earned in battle and smiled when he felt the scar on her lips.

When he thought she'd had enough time taunting him, he thrust his hips upward to knock her off balance before rolling her, capturing her wrists, and pinning them above her head with one hand. He looked down on her triumphantly and saw the mischief that twinkled in her eyes and the gleeful smirk that persisted on her lips. Was there no besting this woman?

"Never strip a Companion of his armor, little one," he rumbled, his voice strange-sounding with lust, even to himself. "There are dire consequences."

Yseult laughed her musical laugh. "Come now, Dour One! It was only fair! I paraded about in my smallclothes earlier this evening. Isn't it high time I saw your fine physique?"

He growled and silenced her laughter, expressing his own dominance with his tongue and teeth. He licked the mark on her lips affectionately before moving from her mouth the corner of her jaw and nipping harshly. The sweet, smoky scent of her hair filled his nostrils and the sound of her gasp at his roughness encouraged him. He continued his trail of licks, kisses, and bites down her neck until he came to the collar of her steel cuirass. "This won't do." He growled and pulled a steel dagger from his hip. He pressed the blade into the strips of leather which bound her armor and made short work of the strappings, tugging the offensive garment off roughly and shoving the heavy metal to the side.

Yseult brought her knee up into his groin. Vilkas yelped and flinched with the pain every man feels at such an assault, clenching as the familiar knot of pain in his lower abdomen came.

"I worked hard to make that," she scolded lightly, the smirk still in place.

"It's an easy repair," snarled Vilkas in return, placing the blade of the dagger at the hem of her chemise, content that it share a similar fate as her armor.

Her knee came up again, though he was prepared enough by her movement to draw his legs together so that her blow landed against his thighs. "What?" He demanded, the attempt having drawn his attention.

"Leave me with at least _some_ clothing to return to Yorrvaskr with," she laughed.

"You'll do well enough in my tunic," he muttered, slitting the garment and tearing it from her.

She giggled in good humor and eyed him appraisingly as he drank in the sight of her. Her breasts were still shielded by the twin triangles of fabric that made up women's undergarments, but he could not help but admire what lay before him. The flecks of fire on her skin did not merely grace her face and neck, but also her torso and belly, the pattern playing merry games around her naval. Her pale skin almost glowed in the light from the fire. Gooseflesh rose on her exposed skin and he took the excuse to smooth his hands over her flesh, admiring the softness of it and how relatively unscathed it was.

"Vilkas," she whispered.

"Hm?" He grunted, tearing his eyes away from her body and up to her face.

"My pack – there are condoms," she said with a cautious smile.

Vilkas felt a surge of heat to his groin at her suggestion. A part of him wanted to ignore her request and continue on the path they'd begun before she had a chance to slip away once more. Another respected her far too highly to allow such a thing as lust to prevent him from performing responsibly. So, with much regret, he pulled away from her, stood, and went to fetch the aforementioned supplies. The task took him longer than he would have liked as he had to sort through a whole mess of things such as herbs, hides, and ores for the purpose of creating ingots. After a while, however, he successfully produced the sheath of sheepskin and moved to return to Yseult.

He stuttered to a halt when he peered at imprint in the grass and saw that Yseult was missing. Confused, concerned, and bewildered, he searched about the campsite for her. All that it yielded, however, was the discover that his tunic was missing, as were his rough-spun trousers and boots. In their place, however was a note written in none other than Yseult's hand.

~ _More to follow_

It seemed to whisper to him mockingly and he could do nothing but smile at the game she continued to weave with him. He knew better than to attempt to seek her out. He should have realized the campsite was set up for only one person. He could not even be angry with her – this was a test of his wits and he knew it. Now all he had to do was plan how to best her.


	5. Beastblood

Chapter Four

Beastblood

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN: Thank you to all of you who have reviewed and read so far. I greatly appreciate your continued support. I gladly accept criticism, as well. I know I'm not perfect and neither is the story and I'm always eager to improve :).**_

_**Note: in this chapter, I chose to make the change more forceful…because to me, it doesn't make sense that you're exposed to a centuries-old secret and then just allowed to walk away from it if you feel like it.**_

* * *

><p>Two weeks passed and Vilkas caught neither sight nor scent of Yseult. Her presence left a deep ache in him. He supposed her nonappearance was not entirely extraordinary – the Companions were free to live separate lives outside the halls of Jorrvaskr. She'd already communicated to him that a great deal of her income was made in smithing armor for wandering travelers, making repairs for the legion, and filling orders for both Skyrim's soldiers and the Stormcloaks alike. Vilkas and Farkas's statuses since pups had made them fit to be mastheads of the Companions and accept assignments and request asked of them from consumers throughout Skyrim. Vilkas's job was to align events in the correct sequence such that even the dullest of the Companions could return mostly unscathed. Planning was not the strongest skill these drunken rabbles presented.<p>

But her absence this time left him with a feeling of wrongness in the pit of his stomach. He maintained the belief that Yseult's life was her own, that she could travel where she wished, and do what she wanted. She was not his charge. His task was simply to direct her to what requests were made of the Companions and provide a bit of instruction so that she did not charge forward completely blind to the circumstances surrounding her deployment.

His struggles with the beastblood were waning, if only just. The animal in him still cried for release, still lamented each time Aela and Skjorn entered the hall smelling of wolf and pine and blood. But even that strain had been removed the past few nights, as neither had returned from whatever private hunting trip they'd taken. Vilkas remained determined to hold off the change, just as Farkas and Kodlak did. He would be strong as they were. Kodlak was closer to finding a cure now that he'd enlisted the mage's help in searching through the archives and the documents. He only needed to hold out a bit longer before he was free of his lycanthropy and the gates of Sovrngarde were open once more.

He was returning from having ventured out of Jorrvaskr to accept a bounty placed on a band of mercenaries by a very rich, very shrewish woman. Aela shoved open the heavy wooden doors and marched out angrily as Vilkas was shaking his head at the dreadful irony of the assignment – hire mercenaries to avenge a caravan lost to mercenaries? She shouldered past him roughly and continued down the stairs, but not before he caught Yseult's scent, faint, but present nonetheless, on Aela.

He whirled and barked at Aela accusingly, "Where is she?"

Aela stopped slowly and turned to face him, her blue war-paint in place as usual. Her eyes narrowed at him tauntingly beneath the streaks. "Who's she? Ria? She's indoors, bragging about killing a bear. I'm surprised you missed her, Vilkas. Your senses are truly growing dull."

He grimaced. They were not dull enough that he missed the scent of fair Yseult on Aela, or the scent of blood that lingered on her. He was also not blind to the heavily bandaged wound on her left wrist. Those two factors, accompanied with the deep sense of unease in his gut and Yselt's abnormally long nonattendance in Jorrvaskr, set him on edge. "Do not play coy with me, pup," he snarled at her, baring his teeth despite his lack of fangs. "Where is Yseult?"

"Oh? Your little whore?" Aela inquired with an innocent smile that quickly morphed into a hideous growl full of sharp, lupine teeth. "She is of no concern. To the Companions or the Circle any longer."

Vilkas felt the hair on the back of his neck rise, the beast begging for release, begging to rend this woman limb from limb. He swallowed the wolf's roar that threatened to burst from his throat and forced out a low-timbered growl. "Where is she?"

Aela shrugged nonchalantly. "She did not take the change well. She fled from us, into the mountains northeast of Whietrun. The sabrecats will have gotten to her by now."

"You _changed _her?" He roared.

"Quiet! Lest you wish all of Whiterun to share her fate!" Aela snarled. "One does not simply waltz in on a 500 year-old secret of the companions. The choice is to change or die!"

"What nonsense are you spinning?" Vilkas demanded. "Who's rules are you adhering to? The Companions'? Or your own sick, twisted beliefs about our plight? Are you so enamored with Hircine that would you force his sovereignty on others without obtaining consent?"

"She gave consent!" Spat Aela.

He refused to believe that. "Given what other choice? Death?"

Aela snarled. "She is as good as dead now, just as Skjorn is." The last bit was stated with a grimace.

Vilkas knew that Skjorn and Aela had been lovers and mates, but could feel precious little sympathy for the conniving wench that stood before him. Whatever the story was, he could hear it later. For now, he had no interest. Yseult was in the wilds of Skyrim somewhere, alone, confused, and probably wounded. Aela's anger, for once, had been a blessing in that she was volatile enough to allow such information to seethe from her lips rather than remaining coiled inside her chest . There was still enough time for him. There had to be.

Aela scoffed. "Go. Rescue your little whore, Vilkas," she snarled.

Vilkas glowered at her and snarled. "Mark my words, Aela. This is not over."

She returned his curled lip and wrinkled nose. "I look forward to the day you are man enough to make good on your words."

* * *

><p>Vilkas enlisted Farkas's help on this delicate endeavor. One man could not scour the entirety of the forests alone and hope to find a single woman in that time. It would have been better had he been able to enlist all of the Companions in the search effort, but he knew better than to risk exposing the lycanthropy to any others after what Aela had done to Yseult. He had not consulted nor made the information known to Kodlak regarding Aela's actions. They were her burden to bear and it was not his duty nor his right to cry to the Harbringer regarding the matter. No. That duty and obligation fell either to Yseult or Aela. Intervention from an outside party was uncouth.<p>

The brothers made a pact between them that evening – the change was allowed this night, under such dire circumstances. The search would be made easier with a keener nose and faster feet. Together, they begged forgiveness from the Nine and acceptance into Sovrngarde before releasing themselves and allowing the long-awaited change to engulf them.

Vilkas wailed in pain and pleasure as the animal surged forward, so cramped and controlled for so long. The human sound became a howl as bones shattered and reformed and muscles stretched to accommodate the lengthening bones. His muzzle stretched, his teeth lengthened, his ears pointed, his clothing tore, and his hands warped to become claws. The last thing to change was his vision, which became heightened and infinitely more sensitive than any human's could be. He could see ever needle in a pine tree, could count them if he chose to extend the effort. He could feel vibrations in the ground beneath his feet and could calculate how far the mammoth herd was. He could smell the myriad of scents that told the drama of nature that night – a pair of squirrels arguing over the real-estate of a particular tree, two bucks rutting over a favored doe, a bear relieving itself in the woods, and faintly, the old smell of three wolves making their way through the forest.

Vilkas glanced to his twin, whose fur was lighter than his own, almost brown in color, and whose vast amount of muscle greatly overshadowed his own, as was the usual. Farkas pawed the ground, the silent signal to communicate and eagerness to be gone. Vilkas flicked his tail to signal his own readiness and the twins bolted, each tracking different scents, trying to triangulate on the one belonging to Yseult. Vilkas took the one which started with the scents of three wolves, pressing his nose to the ground and assessing the scents as they came to him. Two he knew as Aela and Skjorn, having run with them many times when he'd accepted the change simply as a part of who he was rather than a curse. The third scent he could only assume was Yseult, what with the familiar smoked cherry scent. He followed the trail for a while, and the smells did enough to tell him the story. Yseult had changed and it had not been easy. She'd lived, if only just. The tracks in the dirt and snow told of a scuffle, how she'd had to be practically dragged along by Skjorn and Aela. The pungent scent of fear accompanied her and it wounded him deeply to think of such an emotion accosting her.

Farkas's deep, baritone howl echoed over the treetops, bearing with it a sense of urgency and need. The sound was all Vilkas needed as he barreled off toward Farkas. The land passed under his paws in a blur. Fleetingly, he heard the alarmed grunts of deer as they sighted him – too late to do any good – and bolted, the squeals of mice as they hurried from the path of his feet as not to be trampled, and the communal howls of regular wolves as they answered questioningly, but obediently to Farkas's loud voice.

When Vilkas arrived, he found that Farkas had already relinquished his lupine form and knelt in the shadow of a hollow stump and rocks, clad in ragged, rough trousers. Vilkas could smell her before he saw her, but he was not grateful for the scent that met his nostrils or the sensations that found his ears or the pads of his paws. She smelled of sickness and death and her heartbeat was so faint he could hardly hear it even with the beastblood augmentation. Her breath came in shallow, sporadic and quiet spurts as he approached and leered over Farkas, peering down at her in agony. Her physical appearance was a testament to what he could sense was her frail condition. She was naked, her arms and legs draw up against her chest in an attempt to preserve some warmth. She'd long ago lost the ability to shiver and her lips and skin had taken on a bluish tint. Her long hair was unbound and tangled, full of brambles and burrs and all sorts of forest undergrowth. Open wounds existed on her shoulder, probably from arrows, and a deep gash went from her lower back, across her left buttock, and down her lower thigh.

Farkas looked up to him desperately. "She's so far gone, brother…" The poor man looked to be close to sobbing, his eyes were wet and glassy as he looked between his wolf-brother and the pathetic sight of Yseult curled on the ground.

Vilkas heaved out words – speaking as a wolf was difficult, the syllables always seemed just out of reach, "Carry her…. Whiterun…. Warmth…. Hurry."

Farkas bent and gathered Yseult into his arms, her head lolling back and her arms and limbs limp and flopping like a rag-doll's.

"I…. Prepare…. Bring her…. Hurry." Vilkas managed.

Farkas nodded and bolted back toward Whiterun. Vilkas dug his claws into the ground and bolted ahead of his twin, across the meadows and slight hills and valleys of the landscape. The run passed in a blur and arrived quickly enough to the sharpened logs that formed the barrier to the posterior portion of Whiterun. It was here he relinquished the change, much to the disappointment of the beast, and vaulted over the barricade. He hurried inside, ignoring the exclaims of the female Companions and servants and he rushed through Jorrvaskar, naked, and hurriedly called for a bath of warm water to be drawn. He dressed himself hurriedly in trousers and a tunic before overseeing the preparations. It was not needed and he understood that the servant women had their own peculiar magics when it came to hospitality and knew what they were doing. Still, he could not help but fret. Yseult had seemed so far gone in the forest, so much like a corpse. He had never been so frightened or anxious in his life. Divines, he prayed Farkas return quickly.

It seemed an eternity, but his twin followed through, sweat from the run making him shine in the bright firelight of Jorrvaskr. He handed Yseult off to Vilkas, who promptly marched her downstairs and tossed her unceremoniously into the hot-water bath, taking care only to ensure that her head remained above water.

"What do we do now?" Farkas inquired, shutting the door to a few curious faces who attempted to peer into the door. Wounded comrades were nothing new to the mead hall and desperation to see them healed was commonplace. Still, it did not prevent curiosity.

"We wait," Vilkas sighed, looking to Yseult pleadingly. "And we pray."

* * *

><p>The moment the servants realized what the bath was for, they had Vilkas and Farkas thrown out while they tended to the medical treatment of Yseult. The twins even got a stern lecture regarding a young woman and her decency and maidenhood. Farkas seemed rightfully shamed. Vilkas could care less so long as Yseult managed to survive the night. Aela was nowhere to be seen, and for that he was grateful. She was probably mourning Skjorn's death in her own way. Whatever the reason, it kept her far from Yseult and far from him.<p>

The wait was long and Farkas returned upstairs to partake in some mead and discussion pertaining to weaponry and armor. Vilkas knew it was his brother's method of easing his anxiety over Yseult's condition and did not begrudge him a bit from retreating from the living chambers. Vilkas, however, was much more restless, the recent release of his beastblood making him even more so. He paced back and forth in his quarters, having been banished from trespassing anywhere near Yseult. His thoughts raged, the fire in his heart strong and unwilling to be quieted. He seethed, contemplating creative and violent means to cause Aela the amount of pain and suffering she'd surely inflicted upon Yseult since he could not kill a fellow Companion (despite Aela's nonsense rules). He contemplated sneaking bees into her mead when she was nicely intoxicated and laughing as her throat swelled shut and she struggled for air. He thought of pricking her with a needle drenched in a peculiar poison that paralyzed the victim, but left them cognizant and aware. He'd then proceed to dumping her in the forest to freeze and suffer as she had made his Yseult do. Perhaps he'd simply mock her with Skjorn's death time and time again and watch with atrocious pleasure as the light within her eyes grew dimmer and dimmer. Perhaps he wouldn't bother tracing his plans tactically the next time they received a request best stuited for Aela. That wouldn't be killing her…at least not directly.

"Sit down," Kodlak ordered, venturing into Vilkas's quarters unannounced, as was his right as Harbinger. "You're making _me_ tired."

"Apologies," Vilkas said and hurriedly took a seat.

Kodlak calmly took a seat across from Vilkas, tucking his gray-blond hair behind his ear studiously. "Aela tells me that Yseult accepted the change, that we have one more unfortunate soul amongst our ranks."

"Your words, or hers?" Vilkas muttered bitterly.

"Mine, of course," Kodlak stated. The older man then reached out and gently gripped Vilkas's wrist to show compassion, respect, and offer comfort.

"I changed this night, Kodlak," Vilkas admitted. "I convinced Farkas to do so as well."

Kodlak nodded. "You have made your choice and I will not scorn you for it. I hold to the faith that your fire burns brightly, Vilkas. You would not have gone against something you believe in so strongly if it were not worth the trouble."

It was not a comfort, not a promise that Vilkas's decision had been the right one and that it was alright and forgivable. That was not Kodlak's place, but the keeps of Soverngard's. For now, all Kodlak could offer was understanding. It was enough.

"Be careful with how brightly your fire burns, Vilkas," Kodlak said with a light squeeze to his wrist. "You are fierce as a sabrecat, but I fear for where passion brings your mind."

Vilkas recalled how he was contemplating various methods of harming Aela and nodded in shame to Kodlak's words. "You are indeed wise, Harbinger."

Kodlak smiled and patted Vilkas's fist strongly. "Rest now, Vilkas. Yseult's condition is stable and she's been returned to bed for the night. You needn't fuss any longer."

* * *

><p>Another week passed and Yseult was between bouts of lucidity and complete and total unconsciousness. The times Vilkas was able to see her, she was always soundly asleep on her pallet of furs and blankets and he was only able to lessen the tension in his shoulders a bit at each passing. Her color returned and her appearance went from being strained to looking comfortable and healthy. He maintained his tasks around Jorrvaskr and did not make good on any of his musings to mortally wound, maim, or harm Aela. He continued his plotting and planning, as remaining industrious kept his thoughts from both the beastblood as well as Yseult.<p>

He had completed relaying an assignment to Athis, the lone dark elf in their ranks, and was walking back to partake in some of the fresh mead that had been delivered when he glanced into the Companion's and spotted Yseult, awake and sitting upright and speaking with Farkas. Eager that she was aware and lucid, he stepped through the doorway, catching a bit of the conversation being held between her and his twin.

"Does it go away?" She inquired, her arm wrapped tightly around her belly in worry.

"No, not really," Faraks admitted. "But you learn to ignore it. Vilkas and I have had it since we were little. We've grown up with it."

"You're finally awake," Vilkas said, even managing a smile.

But Yseult did not smile. She looked up to him and the naked terror in her eyes struck him more surely and painfully than any physical blade could. He took a step back out of shock, unsure what had prompted such a reaction. There was the stale scent of fear in the air and it made Vilkas cringe. Farkas smelled it, too, and glanced between Yseult and his twin questioningly.

"It's just Vilkas," Farkas promised Yseult with a careful smile.

"Oh, I know. He just startled me," Yseult said quickly, offering Vilkas a watery smile.

She was lying and Vilkas knew it. Farkas either couldn't tell, or thought himself in a rather awkward situation. Regardless, he stood and patted Yseult on the head. "Get better, pup. Talk to Vilkas, me, or Kodlak if you have more questions."

Yseult nodded pleasantly. "Thank you, Farkas," she said and waved to the big man with a frail hand as he departed.

Vilkas seated himself where Farkas's bulk had once occupied the chair and leaned forward to examine her more closely. To his dismay, she shrank from his closeness, behaving as though he were ready to tear out her throat at any moment. This coming from Yseult! Yseult, the woman who'd driven him mad with desire when she'd twined her arms around him and held him to her with such tremendous need. This fearless woman, in body, mind, and spirit was left a cowering girl in his presence.

"What ails you, little one," Vilkas pressed bluntly, unsure of what to do when faced with such behavior as this.

"You've made no secret how much you detest the beastblood," she whispered and the venom contained her words was of such intensity that it made him flinch. "That blood now courses through my veins. I see how you struggle to accept yourself, Vilkas. How can you possibly accept me?"

He bristled defensively. "You did not make the choice to change, just as Farkas and I did not."

"But I _did_, Vilkas," she hissed. "I chose the change to save myself. Nords are taught the virtue of fighting for their beliefs, to defend them, or dye trying."

He could not deny that, but he would not relent so easily. "Then something must have enough influence on you to cause you to choose life over death."

Her heart gushed blood as her pulsed quickened. She looked at him plainly, the fear in her eyes eased, but not entirely alleviated. "Oh yes, Vilkas. _You _did."

"I did?" he repeated, not entirely sure of what she meant to convey.

"I pray that your wits simply escape you momentarily and you are not pretending to misunderstand my meaning because you do not accept it."

"You're correct with the former," he stated in a bland, bored-sounding tone, the note his voice took when he was assessing something.

Yseult shrugged and curled her knees up against her chest. "I've been smitten for some time now, Vilkas. It may have begun as a simple attraction, but it certainly has bloomed. And then Aela and Skjorn approached me with the promise of the change and I baulked. I remembered what you said about lycanthropy, what it did to a person. I remembered the vehemence with which you spoke about it. I knew the alternative was death…I was not yet ready to lose you. You seemed so eager to accept my touch before," she looked up at him mournfully, the storminess of her eyes dissipating into somber pools and cloud and rain. "I supposed I toyed with you too long…I should have taken advantage of my normality."

Vilkas remained silent, overwhelmed with the amount of information that spilled forth.

She seemed unnerved by the silence and so continued. "I was selfish. I wanted to keep you close…but in choosing the change, it seems as though I've only pushed you further away."

He peered at her cautiously, creeping closer and peeking at her under the fiery waterfall her hair created. "Yesult," he murmured. "I still don't understand what you're trying to say."

The frightened, frail, pathetic Yseult that had been on the bed moments ago suddenly disappeared, if only for an instant. With a force belying her weakened state, she laid a blow harshly across his face. His head snapped to the side and he snarled in surprise.

"What was that for-!"

"I love you, idiot!"

Both of their exclamations resounded at the same time and Vilkas was left in stunned silence. With his hand pressed to his cheek to lessen the swelling from her strike, he watched as the her eyes went from bright orbs of lightning into mellow, muted gray-blue tones. She grew uncomfortable in the silence between them while he considered what she'd said. She began to turn away, but he caught her wrist and tugged her toward him, unwilling to let her escape from him again. He searched her eyes, looking for something to suggest that she was lying, that what she'd stated was simply another ruse, another challenge for him to overcome. But what he saw was nothing save open and unabashed affection, caring and love. He could hear her heart pounding in her chest, fearing rejection after her admission. And here he was, stunned to dumbness. It was not because he rejected her and was struggling with words to tell her so…oh no. He simply had not been given the time to properly analyze himself, what with his focus on ignoring the beast. He'd attributed any attraction he'd felt to her to lust and little else, but he would be a fool to deny that he cared for her, and deeply, too. What was love, if not for that? Vilkas knew he possessed a love for Kodlak and for Farkas. Did not these same feelings extend to Yseult? Of course they were different in some ways and the same in others, as was right and proper when regarding a woman and a brother and mentor.

"Say something," she pleaded with him, her voice small as though the terrible racing of her heart were crushing her voice.

"I love you too, oh Dim-witted One," he replied with a snide grin.

Yseult laughed and leaned forward to wrap her arms around his neck and shoulders tightly. She pressed her brow to the crook of his neck and simply sat, breathing slowly. Vilkas, unsure of where her wounds remained, chose to set his hands at her waist and draw her into an embrace. After a bit, she lifted her head and found his lips. Vilkas sighed against her warmth, pulling her more closely to him and reveling in the feel of her. He knew better than to be demanding or rough at a time like this, when both of them needed comfort from the other. She touched his face softly and he followed suit, brushing her hair from her cheek and tucking it back behind her ear idly.

Someone behind them cleared her throat distractingly and obviously, causing Vilkas and Yseult to break from each other grudgingly and peer at the intruder.

Aela stood in the doorway, clearly unhappy with the sight she'd stumbled upon. Vilkas bristled and moved to stand and shoo the war-painted mongrel away, but Yseult was quicker. The small woman bolted across the room and threw a hard punch against Aela's jaw, stunning the other woman and causing her to stumble backward. Aela was quick to regain her footing, however, and brought her fists forward to defend against any other blows Yseult might deal. None came, however. The younger member of the Circle dropped her aggressive stance and displayed open hands at her sides to Aela, communicating that whatever violence she'd been planning on had taken place and no more would follow. Aela nodded respectfully and glanced to Vilkas with a fair bit of loathing in her gaze.

"See me when you're through," she stated harshly, her eyes on Vilkas, but her words directed at Yseult. "I've tasks that involve more potent parts of your anatomy."

With those words Aela retreated from Vilkas and Yseult's presence. The younger woman turned and retreated back to her pallet, rubbing her eyes blearily as though what had just occurred had been nothing but a vague dream.

"A blow to the jaw is all she gets after what she's done to you?" Vilkas inquired. It was not truly his place to question her decisions in dealing with betrayal or injustice, but he was curious as to her motives. He'd have made Aela suffer far more than Yseult had if a matter of equal severity had befallen him. Then again, he supposed he was not the most level-headed of members in the Companions' mead hall. He knew that his fire often burned too brightly and it was rarely something he recognized at the time of his actions. What Yseult had done was probably the better alternative – dealt Aela a blow that others would see and know the meaning behind. It was enough to cast the shadow of shame on her for a while. The lesson needed would be learned.

"Yes," was all Yseult answered, sliding her legs under the warmth of the animal pelts.

He nodded, in no place to question further. He did not like the thought of mercy for Aela, did not understand why she was not punished further. But it was not his place. "Then I shall leave you to rest." He did not like the thought of Yseult and Aela conspiring with one another after the events that had brought on Yseult's change. He bore a strong grudge toward that woman and was unwilling to let it die. But his grudge was not Yseult's and he would not dictate with whom it was appropriate to speak.

Yseult nodded and yawned and nodded. "Vilkas – remember my note?"

He paused in his retreat and looked down at her as she curled into the blankets and peered up at him with wide, mischievous eyes. The only note she'd left him was when she'd stolen his clothes and run away when he'd been so agonizingly close to bedding her.

"Aye," he stated hesitantly, praying that he was recalling the correct one.

She giggled. "I always make good on my promises."


	6. A Fire Lost

Chapter Five

_A Fire Lost_

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN: Thanks to all of you who have read, reviewed, favorite, and subscribed thus far! It's been great having all of you as readers! Input is always wonderful, whether in the form of reviews, favorites, or visitors :).**_

_**Also, I recently realized I've been spelling some of the names wrong now that I've turned on subtitles. Those will be corrected in this chapter and I'll go back and correct them in previous chapters (assuming the internet here holds out). Apologies!**_

_**Enjoy~!**_

* * *

><p>Yseult recovered quickly after their shared, quiet admissions. She graced the halls of Jorrvaskr once more, stepping out on occasion to deliver weapons needing repair up to Eorlund at the Skyforge and taking lessons from the senior blacksmith. Njada remained hostile toward her, however, a fact that did not come as a surprise Vilkas. The woman was ever faithful to Aela, almost to the point of worship. Yseult's confrontation with the huntress had not done well for her reputation in Njada's eyes and the tensions between the two were palpable when they crossed paths in the mead hall. No threats were ever uttered and no fists brought up in the halls, however. It was hardly because such a thing was unacceptable – quite the opposite, in fact. If two Companions had a disagreement, they were encouraged and even expected to solve their differences in the true manner of the Nords. No, the only thing keeping Njada from Yseult was the simple fact that Aela had struck up an agreement with the newest member of the Circle.<p>

That was something that VIlkas cared little for. He did not at all get along with Aela, frowned upon her influence on Yseult, and utterly loathed the woman for her brazen disrespect of Kodlak. It was true that the Companions had no leader and, as such, Aela was very much free to do whatever she saw fit with her beastblood and her sword arm. Kodlak's wisdom was only to be respected, not obeyed. Aela claimed she respected the old man, yet she went rushing about in the wilds of Skyrim, hunting down and slaying each and every hidden coven of the Silver Hand she managed to find through Yseult's espionage and reconnaissance, all in the name of avenging Skjorn.

Vilkas had remained silent far too long, as had Kodlak, it seemed. Aela thought herself clever in keeping her actions a 'secret' from the old man. It was a wonder how she thought any secret could be kept with the nightly drunken shouting matches that went about Jorrvaskr. The talk had moved from merry recounts of battles past to laments and rages of Skjorn's loss. Everyone felt it. Even Vilkas, for all his brooding and aloofness, missed the large man. The two may not have agreed upon the circumstances surrounding the change, but each respected the other's wishes and lived individually without trouncing over the other's beliefs; harsh words passed between them on occasion, though Vilkas largely attributed that to Aela's influence. The Companions mourned their lost comrade and, under the assault of despair, the walls of discretion were the first to fall. News of Yseult's and Aela's efforts in eradicating the Silver Hand had reached Kodlak's ear long ago and Vilkas had worked at controlling his temper regarding the matter. But silence and waiting had done little good. The time for action had come.

So it was when Yseult returned from a day's lessons and work with Eorlund, Vilkas followed her to her chambers and leered at her from where he leaned on the doorframe.

"Good evening, oh Dour One," Yseult greeted him, acknowledging his presence.

"You know you've more than avenged Skjorn's death," Vilkas began, not one for pleasantries. "The need for hunting down any more of the Silver Hand is gone."

"And how long before they attack us to avenge their fallen?" Yseult returned sensibly.

Her stormy gaze met his dark one, her fiery hair disheveled from toiling over the bellows and full of the smell of smoke. She did not seem at all frightened or hesitant before his fiery heart. He knew she could smell the fury on him – she had that capability now. Yet she did not shy away. The other Companions knew him for being callous and brash. He'd relinquished that barrier of cruel words for Yseult and now she stood before him, privy to his openness. He was weak and vulnerable to her. But he did not care. This argument was not about who was right and who was wrong. This was about the consequences of such a narrow-minded mission of conquest. Her actions would bring the Silver Hand down upon them, here in Jorrvaskr. His precious Yseult might very well be cut down if such a calamity were to occur. His entire family might be taken from him in a single blow.

"So you seek to eradicate them before that happens?" He concluded from her statement.

She nodded. "Indeed."

Vilkas folded his arms over his chest and regarded her sternly. "Have you knowledge of how many members remain?"

She faltered, but did not try and assuage him with false sincerities. "No."

"What if they attack here, at Jorrvaskr?" Vilkas pressed.

"Aela believes they are too cowardly," she murmured, a devilish light flickering in her eyes.

"And you accept what she says as true?" Vilkas challenged.

She pursed her lips and let out a _tsk tsk_. "I know to never underestimate my opponent," she stated. "But the chances of their attacking Jorrvaskr are minuscule. There is no talk in their letters to one another dictating such a thing."

Vilkas grunted. "There are other ways of communicating besides letters, lass."

"Over such long distances?" She rebutted.

"Yes, fool," Vilkas snapped. "Word of mouth is reliable and untraceable except through eavesdropping. Stealing letters and notes passed from one member to another does nothing to account for this."

Yseult only grinned. "Then I'd best improve my methods."

Vilkas let out a slow breath through his nostrils. There was no reasoning with her. How could there be? This woman had singlehandedly destroyed a coven of mages and their closest relatives. She was adept at tracking, finding, and waiting for the right chance to strike. She was not like Aela, whose stealth lay only in creeping along behind prey. Yselt was overconfident in her abilities. Mistakes always took place when one least expected it.

"Kodlak wanted to speak with you," Vilkas muttered, still furious that she could not see reason.

Yseult nodded in acknowledgement and proceeded to drag a brush through her hair hastily before moving to step out the door. Before she left, she gripped Vilkas by the crook of his elbow and tugged him down to her height. She placed a gentle, soothing kiss on his lips before rolling flat on her feet once more. She peered up at him under her fiery shocks of hair. "I can guarantee nothing, Vilkas. I only want to keep my loved ones safe. The Silver Hand will not stop their hunt until the inner Circle of Companions lies dead. I am not willing to lose you, Farkas, or Kodlak the way I lost Skjorn. You did not see his corpse, Vilkas. You did not see what they did to him."

"So you stoop to their level?" He replied gruffly.

"I do not torture those whom I kill," Yseult retorted evenly. "I do not skin them alive. I do force them half-way between wolf and human and laugh as they scramble in pain to choose one form or the other. I do not extend their pain any longer than is needed. You saw how I work in the fort. It is no different with the Silver Hand."

Vilkas did not wish to argue further. He could only pray to Ysgramore that she was correct – Jorrvaskr would not be attacked and the Silver Hand would be eradicated. "Go and see Kodlak," he stated, removing her hand from his arm and pushing her out into the halls lightly.

* * *

><p>Vilkas was rather unaware of the circumstances surrounding Kodlak's sudden tension, but the presence of it concerned him. In his years in the halls of Jorrvaskr, he'd only ever seen Kodlak in such a state once before – the night he'd informed them of the circumstances of the change. Now, so soon, it had returned and Vilkas was put on edge. When he asked the Harbinger about it, the old man only smiled and promised him that nothing was amiss. Vilkas could do nothing but nod in acknowledgement and express his frustrations to Farkas.<p>

His twin was an excellent listener. Others in Jorrvaskr mocked him for his slow wits and Vilkas was no exception. The difference was that with Vilkas, the teasing was all in good sport. He knew his brother had a kind heart, a fierce arm, and a strong fire in his heart. He simply did not bear a conniving bone in his body and so was regarded as a simpleton. But he understood more than he made known by speaking and was always ready to help Vilkas shoulder his burdens.

"Aela says you're sweet on Yseult," Farkas said, draining a cup of the honey mead and sliding the tankard away from him.

"I tell you how terribly she and Kodlak have been driving me mad and that is your response?" Vilkas inquired with a laugh, clapping his brother on the shoulder.

Farkas chuckled and shrugged. "I just wanted to put the rumors to rest."

Vilkas nodded. "Aye, I'm sweet on her."

"She's very pretty," Farkas commented, giving his brother a knowing wink.

"I hope you're not implying what I think you are," Vilkas said indignantly. He'd lain with a woman out of lust before. They both had. But this was an entirely different matter.

"I haven't a clue what you're talking about," Farkas bleated sheepishly, but could not disguise the grin beneath his beard. The brothers knew each other far too well for any hidden meaning to pass between then unnoticed.

"I'll take it to be comical relief," Vilkas stated and drained the remainder of his ale.

"Regarding Kodlak," Farkas started, "Don't worry about it. You're the old man's favorite. Whatever it is that's troubling him, he's probably keeping it from you to avoid having it pester you as well."

Vilkas grunted. "I can only hope." He looked down into his empty mug and assessed his beastblood briefly. The animal was under tight control of late, as he'd finally managed to harness it with some guidance from Farkas. He was always hesitant about dulling his inhibitions with alcohol, however. Yseult was now aware of the change, but others in the hall were not.

"Come on, let's have another," Farkas said and plucked Vilkas's tankard from him and marched into Jorrvaskr.

Vilkas chuckled and followed, heaving the door open and shut against the nippy night air.

Whatever mirth he'd had disappeared as Aela rushed toward him and tossed he and Farkas their armor. "Silver Hand," she gasped.

Vilkas needed no more explanation than that. Farkas understood well enough that when armor was thrown at him, he was expected to fight. The twins bound the leather and steel around themselves and hurriedly grasped their greatswords from the weapons racks lining the central dining hall. Farkas flew outdoors with a roar, followed by Njada, Ria, and the other companions. Vilkas was at their tails and charged out into the night, prepared to slaughter any of the wretched order that crossed his path.

Aela stood upon the hill with her bow and launched arrows at those advancing up the hill. Any that managed to survive or slip past her arrows, Farkas and Vilkas made short work of with their swords. A few attempted a flanking maneuver, but Ria was quick at dispatching them before they reached the inner chamber of Jorrvaskr.

"They're scaling the back wall!" Njada cried from her post beside Aela on the hill.

"Farkas! Aela! Hold the main stairs!" Vilkas bellowed. "Ria! With me!"

The woman nodded and charged through the front door with him, intent on intercepting the Silver Hand members. The sight that met him, however, caused his blood to freeze and time to slow. Kodlak, who'd also heard the cry of alarm raised by the servants, had donned his own wolf armor and had come to join in the fight. In the hall, however, undefended and outnumbered by four members of the Silver Hand, he stood precious little chance. Vilkas watched as a Silver Hand member shoved him back, causing the old man to lose his footing. A second charged forward and pressed a heel to Kodlak's chest before thrusting a silver blade down and into the Harbinger's throat.

"Kodlak!" Vilkas roared so loudly he thought for a moment the beastblood had possessed him. Beyond the point of hesitancy, he charged forward, screaming curses and obscenities as he grappled with the members of the Silver Hand. He hardly felt their bodies as his sword cleaved through the flesh of their necks, chests, and stomachs. All he could hear was the sizzle of Kodlak's flesh burning in the presence of silver, smell the lifeblood that flowed from him, and see the light slowly drain from his eyes as he gazed at the ceiling and gargled helplessly in his own gore.

The immediate danger passed, incapacitated and writhing in their own blood and Ria dealing remaining death blows, Vilkas scurried forward and knelt at Kodlak's side, sorrow clotting his throat and anger causing his eyes to burn with tears. "Kodlak!" he cried, grabbing the late Harbinger by the shoulders and giving a crass shake. "Kodlak!" The wound had been too true, too vital to possibly return from. The light in Kodlak's eyes was gone and no air remained for him to struggle with. His blood pooled steadily beneath his head as Vilkas, biting his lip to stem tears, reached forward and closed the old man's sightless eyes.

* * *

><p>Vilkas was unaware of much that happened during the course of the next five hours. He could vaguely remember Yseult returning in stupefied horror, a sack of round objects slung over her shoulder. He remembered losing his temper, screaming at her, demanding to know where she'd been and accusing her of events she could not have possibly predicted. He had blamed her for what had happened to Kodlak, accused her of having been the key figure in the assault on Jorrvaskr. Aela was also not spared from his spitting, seething assault and even went so far as to charge at her aggressively It had taken Farkas's heavy muscle to restrain him from bellowing any more harsh obscenities and doing any more damage than was already done.<p>

After his brother had calmed him, the twins, Aela, and Yseult – the remaining wolves – made a head-long charge for the single remaining Silver Hand stronghold, according to various sources including notes taken from the bodies and torture from one of the survivors. Each and every one of them was furious at the outcome of the attack on Jorrvaskr, volatile and dangerous. Their anger resided with each other and within themselves. They threatened each other's safety in their current state and, rather than shouting and blaming one another for the disaster, they chose to focus their attention on eradicating the Silver Hand surely and truly.

The battle had not lasted long enough. He had not seen enough people suffer. His hatred was not allowed to expel itself to the fullest on the miserable creatures that had inflicted such agony upon his and his family's hearts and minds. A simple death was too good an end for these monsters, yet it was what they received. Vilkas was left unsatisfied, and his fire pressed forward without his consent, searing his innards as he built the funeral pyre for Kodlak, ceremoniously cleaned the body and attempted to make the fatal wound to his throat less apparent. Vilkas allowed nobody else near the body during the preparation and cleansing. The Companions allowed him that luxury as he had been closer to Kodlak than any of the others. He saw to it that the old man looked like a king in death, his hair clean and braided regally, his skin free of any dirt from travel or battle, and his form clothed in his wolf armor and elegant robes colored of the deepest blue. A gold circlet adorned his brow and gold rings his fingers.

And now, everything was clear…here, as he stood observing Kodlak's funeral pyre in silence. Why couldn't his senses be dulled in bloodlust and anger now? Why did those emotions suddenly abandon him and leave him hollow and empty. He was aware of everything, could catalog every detail, smelled the tears Ria spilled for the leader and felt the saddened, fluttering heart of Yseult at his side. Why could he not be made unaware of this? The agony of it all was like a feral animal tearing at his vitals. Kodlak was gone, and his family grieved heavily.

"I'll start," Aela offered, stepping forward with the torch that symbolized the fire in every Companions' heart. "Before the Ancient Flame…"

"We grieve," Vilkas said with the others.

"At this loss…" Eorlund continued.

"We weep."

"For the fallen," Vilkas said, doing his best to make his voice strong and clear to honor the Harbinger.

"We shout."

"And for ourselves," Farkas concluded somberly.

"We take our leave."

Aela stepped forward and lit the tinder at the base of the Skyforge. There was a fair bit of crackling and pathetic smoke drifts before the large faggots surrounding Kodlak's body lit with the burning sorrow and anguish of the Companions' heart fires. Vilkas inhaled the sharp smoke that drifted to him from the burning wood and held it in his chest. _Farewell, Kodlak. May you find the misty gates of Sovrngarde_. He exhaled in a long, slow breath and turned from the Skyforge. There was nothing more to do, no use in clinging to something that no longer held usefulness in life. Kodlak's physical form was gone, never to return. His words would always remain in Vilkas's heart, however.

Sidelong, he saw Yseult stepping toward him, only to be stopped and engaged in a conversation by Eorlund Gray-Mane. Vilkas did not wait for her. He needed time alone. He could not face her like this, not when he was so terribly conflicted. He needed time to right himself, to quell the dangerous fire that threatened to consume him. He risked harming her further if he spoke to her now.

* * *

><p>For a solid day, the halls of Jorrvaskr were silent as death, nursing the loss that had so terribly wounded them. Vilkas remained in his chambers, stewing, sulking, brooding. It was not how a true man, a true Nord, was expected to behave. He should have accepted the loss and stored it away as fact and move on toward the present and the future. Yet here he was, examining and dissecting those events of the past few days, trying to find something, <em>anything<em>, that would have provided him with some insight into what he might have done to prevent Kodlak's death.

Of course, all those thoughts returned to Yseult and her smug confidence. She had been correct in her assumption that the Silver Hand's numbers were dwindling far too quickly. Such desperation usually resulted in carelessness and flight from the battleground, yet the Silver Hand had decided for one final assault on the Companions. Their suicide charge had dealt a mighty blow, indeed. Vilkas could at least rest more easily knowing with absolute certainty that none of the members existed.

"Vilkas?" A small voice sounded from the entrance to his chambers.

He did not answer her, did not behave as though he'd even heard her. But that did not prevent Yseult from shutting the door behind her and stepping lightly toward him, seating herself on the bed beside him and putting a soft hand on his shoulder.

He jerked from the soothing warmth violently. "Don't touch me!" He hissed, glowering at Yseult. How could she, after what she'd done? How could she, after the way he'd behaved?

He saw the shadow of pain pass across her eyes, but it was swallowed quickly enough by blatant understanding and caring. "Vilkas, I'm sorry."

"A bit late for that, isn't it?" he growled.

"It is never too late to express sympathy for a lost loved one," she stated gently.

"You do not regret your actions, then?" He demanded, perhaps a bit more roughly than necessary.

"Oh, I very much do," she stated, her voice again calm and unshakable. "But there is nothing now that can change them."

She was right and he knew she was right. She was behaving in the manner of a true Nord and here he sat, wallowing in his own misery.

"Eorlund has completed the repair of the Wuuthrad," Yseult informed him. "The rest of the Circle is meeting in the Underforge. There may be a way to free Kodlak's spirit, even in death."

Vilkas's grief, so heavy and so dismal, eased a bit at the news. He peered at her skeptically, assessing her confidence in such a matter after the recent shaking she'd taken to her self-esteem with the attack on Jorrvaskr. "Even in death?" He inquired.

Yseult nodded. "Come. The Circle ventures to Ysgramor's tomb."

* * *

><p>The journey was long and harrowing to the northernmost reaches of Skyrim, even beyond Winterhold. There were no horses to make the journey easier, though Aela chose the change in order to make her arrival to the tomb all the swifter. Farkas, Vilkas, and Yseult continued on foot, not speaking to one another and focused on the task at hand. They did not sleep – the beastblood kept them from doing so very well, anyway – and paused only to catch their breath and consume some salted meats and hard bread before continuing their journey.<p>

During that period of travel, Vilkas had plenty of time to himself. The old man had done it! He'd found a cure to lycanthropy. Suddenly the tension made sense – in his old age, he was rather reliant on others to perform duties for him and who better to steal into a cavern full of witches and lop the heads off each and every one than Yseult? That was why she'd been away during Jorrvaskr's greatest time of need, why she'd been unable to defend Kodlak. But now she bore the cure in her pack and could free the old man's spirit, even in death.

He was suddenly ashamed of himself for his behavior. He'd let his fire burn too strongly, allowed it to consume him in his mourning. He could not remember the words he'd bellowed at Yseult, but knew that they came from a wounded mind, body, and spirit and could not have been kind. Yet here she stood, the most level-headed and wise of the group, in spite of his shouting, his pouting, and his rage.

They arrived at the tomb to the sight of a statue of Ysgramor, his hands empty of the battle axe that he carried in the legends of old.

"Place the Wuuthrad there," Aela instructed of Yseult.

The younger woman withdrew the heavy axe from its place on her back and cautiously, delicately, placed it in the hands of the great statue before stepping away.

A stone wall at the back of the chamber opened. Farkas looked to Yseult and grinned. "You ready, sister?"

Yseult took a deep, calming breath before nodding, "Ready, brother."

"Be warned," Aela cautioned, drawing her bow. "The spirits of Companions past are likely to test you. You're not intruding, per say, but they'll want to be sure you're worthy enough to travel into the central chamber."

Yseult noded, drawing her axes in light of the new information. Farkas did likewise with his greatsword. Vilkas stood back, ashamed.

"You're not coming?" Yseult inquired, raising a fiery brow against her frosty skin.

He shook his head slowly. "I will remain here. My heart is not ready for the trials ahead." He could hardly be called a Companion with how terribly his grief had striken him. He would trust her to do what was needed. She would cure Kodlak.

Yseult pursed her lips. "If what Kodlak said is true, if this truly is the cure, I'll see you returned to this place, Vilkas."

He nodded to her insipidly. "Go, little one."


	7. Release

Chapter Six***

_Release_

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN: Hello all! You've reached the final installment in this story! Congratulations on working through all those long chapters to come to this one! Thanks to all of you who have favorite, subscribed, and reviewed. I greatly appreciate it!**_

_**As you can see in the chapter heading, the three asterisks (***) of doom are in the heading. Now, not all of this chapter contains explicit sexual themes, but a portion of it will. I'll leave it to you to decipher the difference, haha.**_

_**Thanks again everyone! It's been fun! :)**_

* * *

><p>Kodlak's spirit had been put to rest, allowed to return to Sovrngarde where the soul of any true Nord belonged. Vilkas was, at last, content and able to return to his duties in Jorrvaskr as though nothing had changed. Or…almost nothing. Yseult had been named the new Harbinger according to Aela, as Kodlak's parting wish in the burial chamber. Farkas had been cured of his lycanthropy and was all the merrier for it. Yseult, as well, had relinquished her 'gift' in favor of humanity moments after she'd released Kodlak. Now, only he and Aela remained as wolves.<p>

He'd been too shamed to attempt the journey to the burial chambers, to concerned over the raging fire in his heart. But the flames had thinned back to normal and he was once again the Vilkas the Companions knew – terse, crass, sardonic, and a bit of an ass. He continued to pass his knowledge of heavy armor among their number just as Farkas passed his knowledge of heavy weaponry. He kept up his tactical advising when new assignments came in just as the Companions continued to accept work which came to them.

But the beastblood remained, persistent and debilitating, and he was tired. He was exhausted with the constant control it required, his will fraying as he attempted to maintain the secret through his fatigue. He longed for release, for the promise of Sovrngarde at the end of his days. It was time to make the journey back to Ysgramor's tomb.

Yseult seemed to know before he did. Before he could even draw near her with his hesitant request, she approached him with a pack of supplies for the journey to the northernmost reaches of Skyrim. "I'll get us horses this time," she promised with a wink.

Vilkas nodded. He was hesitant around her once more, cautious in every move and word that he made. He could not imagine that she saw him fit to love any longer, after the terrible state he been in after Kodlak's death. He wished he could remember what he'd said, so that he could speak against those harsh words. He'd been so utterly out of control.. How could she not be frightened away? How could she find him fit any longer?

But if Yseult felt such hatred toward him, she never made it known. She continued to touch him in fleeting ways, whether handing him his sharpened blade and running her fingers up the inside of his wrist and sending delicious shivers down his spine or resting her hands on his shoulders as he worried a mug of spiced mead. But it seemed an eternity since her soft lips had met his, since he'd be able to taste her. Now that his mind had been cleaned and unknotted of anger and loathing, he found his thoughts occupied less and less with the matter of the beastblood and more and more with begging her forgiveness.

He rode with her to Ysgramor's tomb, again keeping back and to the side as he had previously. He caught the cherry smoke from her hair and ignored much else. That first week when she'd been in the halls of Jorrvaskr, before they'd spoken of the stars, the first moment he'd seen her and been enraptured with her beauty, the first time she revealed herself as a trickster were all wonderful memories that kept him warm during the long, hard ride.

Yseult cobbled the horses outside the tomb so that they would be less apt to escape and ventured inside. Vilkas followed, hesitantly. The feelings of bitterness and anger were still fresh in his mind from when he'd first entered the tomb. He stood bashfully before the dominant gaze of Ysgramor, the beast in him telling him make signs of submissiveness such as licking his lips, yawning, or baring his throat. The human knew it was nonsense – the language of the wolf – that such things meant little to Ysgramor. As such, he gave a respectful nod to the embodiment of the Companion's first and only leader before following Yseult down the passages and tunnels toward the central burial chamber.

"Are you ready?" Yseult inquired, standing near the central pillar of flames gripping a witche's head in her hand by the vile creatures long, greasy tresses.

Vilkas exhaled and looked around him, at all the monuments that surrounded him speaking to the legions of Companions past who had gone on to join the ranks of Sovrngarde. Before them and before Yseult, he commended his spirit to be judged, to have the wolf torn from him as it had been torn from Faraks and Kodlak before him.

"I am ready," Vilkas stated.

Yseult nodded and swung the witche's head into the fire.

The moment the action had taken place, the once-orange fires burned a bright greenish-blue hue. Vilkas had little time to admire the change in coloration before an agony such as he'd never experienced before tore across his chest. He stumbled down onto his knees from the sheer shock and force of the blow. It felt as though two clawed hands had pierces his breastbone and were slowly tearing him in half. Vilkas's sight blurred and became haloed in black with the promise of unconsciousness.

_No_. He hissed to himself, pulling himself upright. _You will fight this. You are a Companions and a Nord. Earn your place in Sovrngarde! Fight this monster!_

With a heavy grunt and a significant amount of effort, he tugged his greatsword from its bindings and leered down his surroundings, blinking against the encroaching darkness. Then, there, snarling at him from the edges of the band of light offered by the fire, was the wolf spirit that had coiled in his chest for so long. Its fur stood straight along its spine in a threatening manner and its lips were drawn back in a hideous grimace. It bellowed its fury and pain at the separation and charged at him.

Vilkas dodged the initial assault and rolled away from the creatures sharp claws and fangs, gritting his teeth against the anguish that roared through his body at the effort. The wolf doubled back for a second attack and Vilkas waited, watching the beast's feet as it prepared to launch itself at him. The moment the wolf's forepaws left the ground he brought the hilt of his blade into the crook of his arm and angled the sword such that the feral animal impaled itself. Vilkas fell with the weight of the large wolf, the pain of the sharp claws tore at the flesh of his arms and thighs as it flailed like the numbness of cold. The wolf's maw continued to attempt to snap at his throat, but only served to drain more and more of its lifeblood.

After what seemed an eternity, the wolf's movement ceased. Vilkas put his feet against its stomach and rolled it to the side, tugging his sword from its breast and heaving against the pain in his own chest. The blackness that rimmed his gaze continued to narrow his sight until all he could see was a screen of murky, inky darkness.

* * *

><p>Vilkas awoke an unknown amount of time later, bolting upright into a sitting position and quickly regretting the action. Aching – the sort that originates from overly taxed muscles – echoed through his abdomen and hurriedly forced him back into position on his back with a guttural groan.<p>

"Is it over?" Yseult inquired from somewhere above him.

Vilkas turned his head to see her where she rested on her knees at his side. He bilked a few times and took the luxury of a few, calming breaths, assessing what sights, smells and sounds came to him. There was no breeze to carry Yseult's scent to him, but he could no longer hear her heart thundering her chest, nor was he so sensitive to the heat that radiated from her. He could not smell with painful acuity the must that existed on the aged rocks, nor could he see with terrifying clarity the details of the chamber. Nothing was extraordinary. Nothing was strange or exact. Everything was so utterly…normal.

He grinned. "I can't smell your heart beating the way I used to. So…yes…I think it is."

Yseult graced him with a wide, genuine smile before coaxing him to sit up more fully. He held his breath and released it slowly through the entire process to prevent any noise from escaping in light of the stiffness in every fiber of his being.

"Here," Yesult said, pressing a small vial into his hand.

"What is this?" he inquired skeptically.

"A health potion," she stated and proceeded to explain, "The woman who owns the Alchemy shop in Whiterun taught me the recipe, since I was such a frequent customer." She winked at him. "Don't worry, it hasn't seen a mage's hands."

Vilkas nodded and pressed the mouth of the small glass bottle to his mouth, draining it of any and all contents in a matter of moments. The taste was bitter, but the effects immediate. The stiffness in him subsided and he was able to move with much less effort.

"Was the battle so terrible for you?" he asked out of curiosity.

Yseult shook her head. "No. But I was not nearly as connected to the beast as you were. It was not so utterly entwined in my spirit as it was with yours." Her eyes cast a fleeting glance up and down his form. "Did it hurt?"

Vilkas nodded. "Like nothing I've ever felt before."

"Yet you triumphed nonetheless," Yseult stated, a delicate smirk on her lips.

He returned her grin, "Yes, I suppose I did."

The pair sat in companionable silence for a long while, Yseult gazing at the fire and Vilkas studying and meditating upon the essence of greatness that pervaded the burial chamber. It was comfortable and calming. Without his ever needing to ask it of her, she'd forgiven him for his harsh words the day of Kodlak's death. He knew it from the ease with which she sat near him and tended to him while he recovered. She'd never hated him and he was a fool to have thought so.

It was a long while before either of them spoke.

"What do you plan on doing now?" Yseult inquired.

"That I'm cured, you mean?" Vilkas clarified and then shrugged, "I haven't given it much thought. I'll keep my duty to the companions, of course. The prospect of being a businessman has always taken my fancy, though."

Yseult giggled. "You're going to buy a house Whiterun and become a fat, lazy trinket salesman?"

Vilkas laughed at the thought. "I was considering following you in your travels, Yseult." He stood up and stretched languidly, grateful for the health potion. "Perhaps I can sell your spoils for you and turn a profit. You can pay me whatever you deem fit."

A spark sailed through her eyes and her smirk widened. "And your duty to the Companions?" She inquired.

"Aela enjoys the solitary life. I'm sure she'd make an excellent courier," Vilkas replied with a devilish grin.

Yseult laughed heartily and slung her pack of supplies over her shoulder. "Come, salesman. Let's return to Jorrvskr. I'm sure Farkas will be eager to hear the good news."

"Wait," Vilkas pleaded, not truly knowing what on earth possessed him to do so.

"Hmm?" She turned from her retreat.

He became rather unsure of himself. He wanted to touch her, to taste her once more. Whenever such things had occurred, Yseult had always been the one to start them. Now that the duty fell to him, he suddenly felt like a bumbling pup making its first attempt at running.

"What is it, Vilkas?" Yseult demanded, taking his silence for something gone terribly awry.

She approached him once more and he flung all caution to the wind. The moment she was within reach, he grabbed a hold of her arm and brought her against him with more force than was, perhaps, necessary. She let out a small squeak of surprise and opened her mouth to make some sort of demand or inquiry. He did not allow her the chance before he claimed her lips with his. Much of her was made inaccessible through the steel armor she wore so he settled for gripping her waist and pulling her against him more surely. His fingers found her hair and twined themselves there, pulling slightly to coax her mouth open. She was more than willing to oblige and he delved into her mouth, sighing contentedly with the taste of her, still sharp and sweet as it had been when he'd first sampled her.

Vilkas was the first to retract himself from the kiss and pull away, peering down at Yseult hesitantly.

Her reaction did not disappoint. She glanced up to him and smiled in her cunning manner before licking her lips. "I've taught you well, oh Dour One."

He chuckled, the sound a low rumble in his chest. He leaned down to whisper in her ear, "You taught me nothing, pup."

She shoved him back from him playfully, both brows raised. "Is that a challenge, Vilkas?" She taunted.

He winked. "It is whatever you make it to be."

* * *

><p>The return to Jorrvaskr resulted in an overjoyed Farkas and a rather grim-looking Aela. Farkas was simply grateful that his brother would be better for conversation past grim brooding about the beastblood. Aela saw Vilkas's cure as a betrayal, of sorts. She, too, had been a wolf all her life. Now she was the only one who remained with the curse. Vilkas thought it suited her well.<p>

Farkas called for a celebration and feast to be brought up. Vilkas knew it was to celebrate the cleansing of the Circle, though Farkas did not specifically state it as a reason. The others, however, were simply glad for the excuse to partake in feasting and drinking and merriment. Vilkas supposed he was glad as well. He continued to cast furtive, heated glances at Yseult, however. Infuriatingly, the woman would simply turn and wink at him saucily before joining with Farkas, Torvar, or Athis in a merry jig around the hall. Vilkas took his time in plotting – she'd not take him by surprise again – and he made sure that she saw him drinking plenty of honeyed mead, though he continued to sip marginally out of the tankard. That was the trick, it seemed. Let the little vixen think she was winning. She would let her guard down, then. He'd have plenty of opportunity to take advantage of her position when she believed him a helpless, drunken fool.

Hours and hours passed with Vilkas biding his time until Yseult stopped her dancing and approached him. Her cheeks were flushed with the effort of performing one jig after another and her hair was more than a little unkempt from the spinning and twirling. Vilkas had to work to keep the smile from his face – she'd be more disheveled after he was through with her.

Yseult gave him a once over before stating, "My good sir, I do believe you are completely intoxicated."

He grunted noncommittally, working not to smirk at her overly flowery language.

"Let's return you to your chambers then, hm?" Yseult said with a wicked smirk.

Vilkas allowed her to tug him to his feet and help him stand on the way down to the living quarters in Jorrvaskr, relishing her warmth and her closeness. She opened the door for him quietly, ensuring that the hinges did not creek. As Vilkas passed the threshold, however, her foot hooked around his ankle and she gave a strong shove between his shoulder blades. He tumbled forward and sprawled on the ground, rolling onto his back in surprise just as she threw the iron bolt across the door and advanced on him.

"You're a terrible actor, Vilkas." Yseult informed him, the delicate pink of her lips parting to show a wicked grin.

He chuckled. "You see, little one? You taught me nothing."

She descended on him, straddling his hips and laying a firm hand on his chest and shoving him down onto the sparse wooden floor. She stretched her body along the planes of his, the mound of her pelvis rocking against his arousal and earning a terse grunt from him. She chuckled at the noise and moved her hips in a slight circle to increase the delicious friction.

Vilkas growled and grabbed a fistful of her hair, giving a slight tug and causing the dizzying sensation to stop.

"Something the matter, love?" Yseult murmured, her voice gone dark and rough with need. The sound of it brought a surge of warmth to his groin.

Vilkas responded by sitting upright and biting her neck. He heard her gasp and shuddered at the sound before replying in a throaty whisper. "You drive me utterly mad, woman."

She chuckled and put her hands on his shoulders, shoving him back to the ground with strength that belied her small frame. "I haven't even begun," she informed him frankly.

Yseult leaned down and kissed him roughly, slipping her fingers beneath the hem of his tunic and slowly working the fabric up his belly and chest, breaking the frantic meeting of their mouths only to tug it from his head and toss it aside. She then removed her own blouse and chemise and tossed them into the rapidly-growing pile of clothing. Vilkas groaned achingly at the sight of her and reached up to clasp her against him once more. Again, she began working her hips in those damned circles over his groin, coaxing soft snarls from his throat and arches in his back. Her fingers toyed with the trail of dark hair that ran across his chest and down his stomach before descending to his nethers. She toyed with him, not allowing her hands to delve any further into his trousers. Only her fingertips teased the sensitive skin there. The sensation, combined with her soft, smoky scent, the sweetness of her mouth, and the maddening gyrations of her hips, was more taunting than he could bear.

With a deep snarl, he sat up and stood in one fluid motion, dragging her with him without ever separating their desperate and hungry mouths. His hands found her skirt and, too depraved with her closeness to attempt to fumble with the buttons at her waist, tugged harshly at the fabric, popping the small threads that held the bone pieces in place and tearing the fabric down the seam. He let the offensive garment pool around her ankles and began working his fingers at the boundaries of her undergarments.

She pulled away, suddenly, and slapped his fingers away. "I'll handle this one, if you don't mind," she panted with a laugh, stepping back slightly to pull her legs through the holes in the garment. "You seem to have a habit of tearing perfectly good clothing."

He made a small noise of acknowledgement, far beyond the capability for words. He simply watched her hungrily as she revealed to him the nest of fine, fiery curls that had remained hidden from his sight for far too long. The copper flecks of color dappled the skin of her hips and buttocks. Fleetingly, it occurred to him that he'd seen her naked before, with the eyes of the beast. But it had not been like this. Then she'd been wounded, hurt, and desperate. Now she was herself once more. The desperation remained, but it was of a different sort – the sort Vilkas very much liked.

Yseult reached behind her back to pull at the knots securing the fabric that held her breasts, arching delicately as she did so. The bindings came free easily and he released the smallest whimper at the sight of her. She was infinitely more beautiful than he could have possibly imagined. Her breasts were ample and not overly large, her skin still milky white and soft. Her nipples were taut with her arousal and the same sensual pink as her lips. He could not smell her as he'd been able to before, but such a thing was not needed. Everything needed to communicate her eagerness for him was contained in her body language.

"Well?" she prompted him with a raised brow and hands on her hips.

He grunted, hurriedly shucking his trousers and loincloth and kicking them to the side before he leapt at her. The momentum carried them both to the wall with a crash and he groaned at the feel of her strength and of her softness. Again, they were twined against one another, her arms around his neck and her fingers locked in his hair. His went down and cupped her buttocks, giving an appreciative squeeze to the soft flesh there before traveling up her sides and belly and groping her breasts roughly. She moaned into their kiss and he took the opportunity to pass the tip of his tongue along the pale scar on her lips. He then leaned forward a bit and pressed hard, wanton kisses up her jaw line before nipping at her earlobe, savoring the taste o f her.

"Mine," he growled as his hands found her arms and forced them above her head. He held them in place as his mouth found hers again and delved in with needy passion.

"Yours," she sighed as he withdrew and licked her swollen lips.

"Not quite sure I heard you, love," he said gruffly, taking her by the wrists and hoisting her up higher on the wall such that the tips of her toes were barely touching the ground. He then moved his lips down to take one of her succulent buds of flesh into his mouth.

Yseult gasped and flailed, arching her back and clenching and unclenching her hands.

Vilkas did not release her. Instead, he lifted her higher onto the wall, his strength the only thing maintaining her suspension. He swirled his tongue around the delicate bit of her before proceeding to suck roughly.

She groaned and bucked and arched all the more deliciously against his relentless hold. "Yours!" She wailed through her panting breaths.

"Good girl," he murmured, switching his affections to her other nipple and lavishing it as thoroughly as he had the first.

Again, she kicked and flailed against him, moaning loudly with each flick of his tongue and whimpering at each brushing of his teeth over the sensitive bud of flesh.

Vilkas pulled away to observe his handiwork, seeing how the once delicate pink of her nipples had blossomed into a rosy flush. He grinned wickedly and lowered her back to her feet.

Yseult took the opportunity of her release to pounce onto him once more, wrapping her legs around his hips and gripping him tightly. The warm wetness of her core pressed against his stomach and caused shivers to pass up his spine as it dripped down his abdomen. "Bed," she whispered hungrily into his ear.

He was all too happy to oblige and promptly marched over to the layers of pelts atop the hay mattress. He blindly fumbled for the bedside table and drawer, searching for the condoms he'd stolen from Yseult's pack.

"What are you doing?" she gasped, withdrawing her mouth from his and peering at his extended arm curiously.

"Condoms," he grunted.

She blinked at him for a moment and then laughed loudly. He growled, failing to see the humor.

"That was only a distraction, love," she murmured, tugging his arm back around her. "There are potions for contraception."

He chuckled, the sound a partial snarl. "…little she-devil you are." It was all he managed before he became intent upon their previous actions.

Vilkas languidly lowered the two of them onto the furs, their mouths once against twined together as each savored the other. He reached back and unwound her legs from around his hips and kept them spread with his knee. Without separating from her, he gripped her hips and moved her into an open position before finding her sopping entrance and thrusting into her.

Yseult broke away from the kiss and arched back with a sharp gasp, the hardened buds of her breasts pressing into the muscles of his chest wondrously. Vilkas groaned at the feel of her tightness around him and blinked away the stars in his vision. Frantic with need for her, he gripped her hips more tightly and proceeded to buck against her as quickly and roughly as he could.

She was mute for a few moments before gasps, moans and screams began escaping her throat. He watched her breasts roll with each of his brutal thrusts, marveled at how she twisted and writhed against him and savored the arousing twists her body could manage. Unable to stay silent in the wake of the overload of his sensory perception, Vilkas's voice soon joined hers in the bestial groans and growls.

His muscles began to ache with the fatigue of his efforts and he slammed his hips against hers roughly, rocking onto his knees and bringing one of her legs up and over his shoulder before beginning his assault anew, dizzy with the wonder of her.

Yesult's eyes widned and she twisted and moaned loudly. "Vilkas," she managed to gasp as her fingers knotted in the pelts.

"Yesult," he responded in a grunt, the only comprehensible sound he could make at that moment.

Her eyes were squeezed shut, her head rolling from side to side her core continued to be pillaged. "Harder…I'm…so close."

Spurred on by her request, he quickly positioned her other let up over his shoulder, gripped her hips and angled her body downward. His thrusts became more demanding, more cruel and rougher than before. He no longer brought his hips to meet her, but also pulled her body onto his, the dark curls of his groin thoroughly drenched with her essence. He could feel himself drawing dangerously close to the precipice of no return but could not slow his needy thrusting.

Yseult wailed suddenly, hands that had previously been occupied with the furs on the bed reaching up to his wrists on her hips and gripping so roughly her nails pierced his skin and tore it as she clawed him desperately. "Vilkas!" She screamed.

It was all the warning he got before her insides suddenly clamped down on him like a vice and began a violent spasming. He roared her name, the sudden pressure too much for him to endure and shoving him into the abyss. His vision spun as his hands gripped her more tightly and the muscles in his arms bulged as he continued to thrust into her, riding the last waves of his orgasm.

Vilkas released her hips and withdrew from her with a terse moan before rolling onto his back, reveling in the continued feeling of bliss. Yseult shifted and lay her head on his shoulder with a satiated sigh, her hand spreading on his chest and toying with the fine curls of hair there. He looked down to her with a smile and kissed the small scar he'd left on her lips softly. A flash of red caught his eye, however, and he glanced down to see smears of dried blood at the inside of her thighs as she rotated her hips toward him.

"I hurt you," he concluded bitterly. Stupid, to be so concerned with his own pleasure and forget completely about hers.

"Hm?" Yseult glanced down and thumbed a bit of the stuff from her legs. "Oh…no. It been known to happen the first time."

He looked at her incredulously, his mind half-fogged still with pleasure. "A virgin?"

She shrugged and curled against him more closely. "Until about an hour ago, yes."

Vilkas laughed and shook his head. "You should have told me. I'd have been more careful."

She giggled drowsily and tapped his nose. "I didn't want you to. Why do you think I teased you so? To have you be gentle and polite with me?"

He sighed and kissed her brow. "I love you, little fox."

She returned the gesture by kissing his collar bone. "And I love you, my fierce wolf."

* * *

><p><strong>The End<strong>


	8. Afterword

Afterword

* * *

><p>Hello everyone. This is a section where I'll address some concerns about the story that (hopefully) were made clear with the ending. There are no more steamy bits, so feel free to look away ;)<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Why is Yseult so readily liked?<strong>

This I can answer by blaming it on the game. For those of you who've played the Companion's quest line, you know that Farkas and Aela are initially very nice to you and Vilkas is the ass-hat who's opposed to your joining the Companions (and I mean that with all due affection). I have no idea why those first two like you at first. I'm going to assume Farkas likes you because he's just a likeable kind of guy and Aela has ulterior motives (at least that's how I saw it). If you played through and read Kodlak's journal, you'll see that he had a dream where a warrior helped him fight the wolf and allowed him access to Sovrngarde. So…that's why he's fine with Yseult. Those four are the only ones she interacts with initially in the story, hence why there isn't much conflict until later with Aela and Njada.

**Why do you need condoms in a magical universe?**

Because it makes for a good distraction, as Yseult was helpful to point out in the final chapter ;).

**Vilkas's "stomach fell into his stomach"? Oh baby, you know how to turn your readers on.**

Hahaha…SHUDDUP! I was on an airplane for 14 hours! You try typing on 2 hours of sleep! I'll fix it later…once people have had the opportunity to go back and find it and laugh their asses off at my expense.

**Why did you gloss over so many details in the quest line?**

Because I was laz- er...this is a short-story and I figured that most of the readers have played the Companion's quest line and don't want to hear about it over again.

**Eeew, pubic hair? **

Yes…remember what time period this is in. Personal grooming…down there…wasn't a fad or necessary part of keeping up appearahces. In fact, it was probably beneficial in keeping all the nasties out of there when you went for days on end without bathing.

**Have more questions? Submit them in a review/PM and I will address them (either privately or publicly at the inquirer's discretion). Thanks again for reading!**


End file.
